


Forever is a Long Time

by coconut90



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Dystopia, F/M, M/M, Slash, Slytherin Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 72,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconut90/pseuds/coconut90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
In a different world, where Neville is the prophetical child and Voldemort conquered Britain years ago, Harry Potter lost his parents and grew up jaded, lonely and angry. Revenge was the only thing that mattered to him. But it was also unattainable, because the whole British government was on his kill list: notable Death Eaters like Barty Crouch Jr, Bellatrix Lestrange, Terrence Yaxley and even the Dark King himself, Lord Voldemort.<br/></p><p>
So, in his moment of desperation, young Harry struck a deal with the devil. Well, not with the devil exactly, but with a being— a man who lived in the diary— named Tom Riddle. Tom, who possessed his adopted brother Draco Malfoy, who tricked Harry into a vassalage oath, who trained Harry to become an assassin, and who, despite his cruelty and games, had become the only thing that anchored Harry to sanity.<br/></p><p>
In his seventh year at Hogwarts, Harry experienced many things— murder, betrayal, adventure, victory and war. What he didn't expect, though, was finding love in the unlikeliest place.
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Due to complains, this fic is now posted on AO3 by the author (originally posted on Fanfiction under the same name). Both will be updated. Cheers-- Coconut.**

Warning: Slash

_/PAST/_ : flashback scenes

* * *

 

**Chapter 1**

Whenever Harry Potter Malfoy reflected back on his life, he wished he was dead.

Off course, that was why he always tries not to think about it.  _His life, that is._

Because, sadly, he didn't really have one.  _A life. A real life, one that is worth living, a happy one, a safe one, a normal one._  No matter how he wished for it.  _No._  All he had experienced was a series of terrible, unfortunate events. A Shakespearean tragedy dressed in blood and gore, and magic so dark that souls are ripped apart.

_All the world's a fucking gladiatorial stage, and all the men and women merely waits their turn_   _— to kill or be killed._

In a corner of the Slytherin dormitory, deep in the heart of Hogwarts, Harry turned over in his bed and buried his face in his pillow. His scar was hurting all day, which was never a good sign.

Someone was probably going to die.

Harry wished it was him.

Harry signed. It was best not think about it.  _The future, that is_. Because he didn't have one.

_Oh yes_.  _Now, you may ask, what is he talking about?_

After all, he was young, rich, a good-looking boy and a powerful wizard. He was the captain of the Slytherin quidditch team, a good student, popular and well-respected among his peers. He was the adopted son of Lucius Malfoy, the British treasury secretary, and the adopted brother of Draco Malfoy, the influential Head Boy, and he was the future heir to the illustrious Potter line.

_Future?_  He should have a future so bright that the sun fades by comparison. He should have a future so bright that he ought to party every night in celebration and lie with a different girl every week.

_He should be happy._

Harry scoffed. If you only knew, then you'd wish you were dead too.

Harry shut his eyes and tried to drift asleep. He needed to sleep. He needed to have his strength and wits about him tomorrow, to deal with Tom. That bastard who never leaves him alone.

So, sleep away.

It was just that the nightmares never stop.

Because he was the boy-who-remembers.

He would always remember that day.  _That beginning_. The day that everything was taken from him; the day that Harry Potter died; the day that a young boy, who lost everything, who willingly forsook the world, swore to destroy the Dark Lord Voldemort and the whole British government.

* * *

_/PAST/_

"Happy birthday, honey," said Lily Potter cheerfully as she kissed Harry on the forehead. "How old is my little hero today?"

"Six!" shouted little Harry chirpily, and he hugged his mother over a pile of presents. "Can I  _please, please_  open my presents now? Oh please mummy, please!"

"Now, prongslet. You know the rules," replied James Potter as he peered at his son from behind the Daily Prophet. His hair was messier than usually.

"No presents until the party. You'll have to wait for our guests."

Harry pouted just as his mother levitated things onto the dining table—plates, drinks, his birthday cake with its magical exploding candles.

"BUT... it's almost time!" Harry turned his big, green eyes toward his father. "I'll just open one, then?  _Oh Please_!"

James set down his newspaper, the August 1st edition of the Daily Prophet. Diagon Alley was burning on its cover under the headline  _"Muggle-born Registration Act riot turns violent: suspected Order of Phoenix sabotage kills three in a deadly blast_ ".

He leaned toward Harry.

His father had a wicked grin on his face.

"No presents until the party. Sirius, Remus and Peter will be here in a minute. Wanna guess what uncle Sirius got ya?" James wiggled his eye-brow and made a swooshing motion with his hand.

"YES! A broom?" Harry gasped and jumped onto his chair. His wide, toothy grin was just like his father's.

"Oh wow! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I LOVE YOU!"

Lily rolled her eyes, but suppressed a smile amidst the boisterous laughter of her husband.

She reached down to straighten his tie, and frowned when she noticed the snake and skull symbol on his robe – the symbol of the Ministry of Magic. Then, all the happiness seeped out of her.

She shuddered unconsciously. Oh, how she hated that place. How she hated thinking about her James working there every day— working for him, that monster— the Dark Lord Voldemort.

It had been five years since Voldemort came to power and the mighty Order of Phoenix had fallen. The Dark Lord wasted no time in transforming the wizarding world into his own twisted, rigid, fearful society that worshipped blood-purity and hated people like her...  _The mudbloods._

And what success he had.

Upon sizing power, the Dark Lord promptly stripped everything in the old Ministry of Magic. He fired everyone (and killed many as well) and inserted his Death Eater into every crevice of the government. They brought with them a new hierarchy—one with military efficiency and precision, but, most importantly, one with uttermost devotion to the Slytherin Heir and his ideology.

Lily always thought it was creepy how much the Death Eaters loved their leader. Their devotion wasn't just limited to pretence, brought on by ambitions and fears— which was the public's view of the Dark Lord— Oh no, the Death Eaters honestly revered him and his stupid, bigoted ideology.

Those pure-bloods loved their leaders so much that they didn't even protest when the Dark Lord decided to do away with many ancient wizarding laws to make his own.

The Muggle-born Registration Act was one such a new law— an atrocious and bigoted thing— and Lily was sure it was just the tip of the iceberg.

Lily didn't know what the Dark Lord could've promised the pure-bloods. Yet, it was impressive how quickly he managed to convince these ancient and powerful houses to forgo tradition. Then, Voldemort's new administration made their first major decreed. A manoeuvre so brilliant that it even dazzled and surprised her.

Voldemort convinced —or more likely forced— rich and powerful pure-bloods to open up their wallets. He used that money to hired many people for his new government and had his Death Eaters indoctrinate them properly. He opened up a propaganda department and imported Muggle's way of accounting.  _Oh, the irony!_  The momentary boost in employment was enough to jump start the recovery and boost morals.

In one short year, the economy recovered and many war-torn wizarding communities had been rebuilt. The new riches and prosperity made people forget the past... It made them blind.

That was when Lily realized how out-dated and corrupt the old ministry of magic really was. And that was when she finally — finally, after years— realized the war has truly ended.

It made her sad.

_And fearful._

_Fearful_  not only for herself, for she already suffered humiliations following the Muggle-born Act (Also, she had lost her job as a Ward Master at Gringotts Wizarding Bank).

No, she feared for her son.  _For her Harry._

_Feared_  for the world Harry will live in. With a dreadful resignation, she  _feared_  that Harry will grow up to believe what he reads in the papers; to believe what they teach in the schools; and, one day, to believe that her blood is as dirty and shameful as they'll tell him.

Lily sighed as she patted her sons' head absently.

Yet, on some level, she had to admit that Voldemort wasn't as cruel as she had previously thought.

To her surprise, the Dark Lord didn't demand the immediate eradication of Muggle-borns. He understood that they were, in fact, necessary, especially given the small size of wizarding populations. Eventually, he even placed new provisions into the Muggle-born Act to allow for "high-performance Muggle-borns to arise above their ancestry and to be rewarded with opportunity for equal citizenship".

_Whatever that means._

Still, Lily supposed she should be grateful to be alive.

Both James and she had been members in the Order of Phoenix and they were both pardoned at the end of the war.  _Pardoned by Voldemort himself, no less._

The mass pardon for light wizards was the second most popular move by the new ministry. Light wizarding families numbered just as many as dark ones. And truthfully, the light side was always more popular in public opinion.  _Well... at least they used to be._

Therefore, as a gesture of reconciliation, the Dark Lord had absolved many of those who fought against him in the war, declaring them to be victims of trickery by Albus Dumbledore. Aside from the more ferocious warriors (who got tried as war criminals and received public executions), most of them were released. Some of them were stripped of their titles and their jobs; most of them their money. But they were alive.

(Although Lily did hear whispers of rumours that the pardon was merely a public facade, secretly, Voldemort marked many ex-order members for assassinations. But she had no way to confirm this.)

James and Lily were placed under house arrest for a few years, but they were, eventually, able to return to a semblance of normal life. James was even allowed to resume his title as the head of the Potter house.

Then, he shocked her by returning to his old jobs as an Auror.

So... now he works  _for_  the Dark Lord… at the new ministry, under the newly created Department of Peace (which combined the old Aurors department with Voldemort's military), under the direction of that dreadful woman—the one they call the Warmaster.

James had said he wants to continue to help people. And, through the determination shone in his warm brown eyes, Lily understood what it implied.

So she made him promise to never talk of the Order again. And she made him promise to never, ever endanger himself or his family for some silly rebellion. James had looked so hurt when she said that.

And it broke her heart.

But she had Harry to protect now. And so, she must… _must_  make him promise. Eventually, he did vow to stay away from trouble and from illegal activities. But the way he said that vow and the way he kissed her when he said it – so tenderly that it left her heart fluttering and her mind troubled.

Lily Evans Potter was worried, because she was a brilliant witch and she knew her husband.

Yes, she knew him.

Her love was always a brave one. Reckless and brave.

She noticed the bags under James' eyes and kissed him fiercely.

Little Harry continued to dance around the dining room in a delighted delirium, finally making her laugh. Her husband's arm wrapped around her and Lily rested her head on his shoulder.

"Lily-flower," whispered James. "let's get out of this bloody country."

She whipped around to face him. Her beautiful green-eyes narrowed.

"Why?"

"I know you hated it here." James smiled fondly, but it was a weary smile, the kind seen on old men's face, not on young adventurous trouble-makers.

"I've been selfish," he continued. "My whole life, Godric Hollow has been my home... It was the home of my parents and of my ancestors. And I had hoped that— one day— it will be Harry's. But, now I realize it isn't the house that is my home. It is you—"

He hugged her a little tighter.

"—and Harry, who makes it worth returning to. You are right. This place is no longer safe for us. We can start anew in France, or Italy, or Belgium. Anywhere. As long as we are together."

She regarded him silently, then she sunk into his embrace.

"But how? You know they will not let us leave. The anti-apparition ward around Britain is as strong as ever. I would know. I'm a Ward Master."

He smiled at her gratefully, "Well, I wasn't planning on telling them. Sirius found a group of vampires willing to let us stowaway on their cargo ship for a price."

"When?"

"Next week... If you are ready."

She nodded.

"I have been ready for a while."

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Harry perked up.

"That must be uncle Sirius! I'll get it!" He shouted and ran out of the dining room.

Lily was about to shouted at him to mind his manners, when the ward of the house suddenly shifted.

She felt the magic in the house come alive and it was buzzing with a frantic alarm. She grabbed her wand, shared a terrified look with James and instantly ran after their son.

Lily heard Harry's scream before she saw them by the door.

Her heart nearly stopped. She had to use all her will to not curse that woman on sight. That blasted witch, wearing a mad grin and Death Eater uniform, had Harry's arm in a tight grip. Her son's face was red and swollen; evidently, someone had struck him hard across the nose.

" _Bellatrix Lestrange_ ," James growled. His stance instantly shifted to that of a dueler.  _"Let go of my son."_

"Now, now. Is that anyway to speak to your boss, Auror Potter?" Bellatrix chided playfully, the crazy look not entirely gone from her face.

"And here I was just going to compliment you on your lovely house… and adorable boy."

She pinched Harry cheek hard and Harry looked like he was going to cry.

Lily's blood ran cold.

_Bellatrix Lestrange_. One of Voldemort's most trusted follower. A member of the inner circle. Murder, executioner and hound of the Dark Lord. She was the head of the Department of Peace— the one they nicknamed the 'Warmaster'.

The tall, skinny man who stood next to her was murmuring to himself. He was also wearing a Death Eater uniform and Lily thought she recognizes his picture from the papers. He was a judge-of-a-sort, also a high-ranking Death Eater. Bartemius Crouch Jr, as she recalled.

"Madam Lestrange," Lily bowed and lowered her wand cautiously. Her voice a pitch higher than normal. "To what do we own the pleasure?"

Her eyes met Harry's and she shook her head slightly. In response, Harry stood up straight and wiped his eyes dry.

_Oh, her brave, brave boy._

Bellatrix snapped her attention to Lily and frowned slightly as if trying to recognize her. Nevertheless, she answered.

"I need a word with your husband.  _Deary_. Ministry business. In fact... Hmmm... Why don't you both come in with us."

"If you wish, madam, we would be more than happy to—" Lily smiled reassuringly and stepped forward, her wand still pointing to the floor. "Let me just sent Harry to bed before we go."

"Stop right there,  _Mudblood_." Bellatrix suddenly jibed her wand at Lily's chest, the amusement vanishing from her face. "Don't ye go and ruining my mood today. Careful... you don't want to cause any  _accident_ , do you?"

She jerked Harry backward, getting a yelp from the boy, and held him tight to her chest. Then she smirked at Lily.

Behind her, Lily heard her husband growl. She felt the house's ward tightening in response and she prayed that he would keep his temper. At this range, Lily could see Bellatrix was a dark beauty and appeared disturbingly like Sirius. Next to her, the man was revealed to be speaking to a small robin on his shoulder.

Lily recognized the robin. James had told her it was a new communication device used in his department.

It hit her— _they were surrounded_.  _Trapped in their own home._

She could hear his words now.

"— Suspects entered the contact zone. Two adults. Armed and dangerous. Hostile intentions and attempting to resist arrest. Stand by for now—"

The tension was thick in the room. Lily snuck a look at her husband. James was a talented dueler. If he could distract Bellatrix for a moment for her to grab Harry, if she could activate the ward at same moment, they could apparite out—

Then, the house exploded.

Well, it was more like Harry willed the ward to explode. The panic in his first case of accidental magic triggered the ward somehow. The magic in the rooms instantly converged on the two invaders and blasted them backward in an effort to protect their young master. Both Death Eaters were thrown against the wall and knocked unconscious. The six-years-old stumbled forward and fell into Lily's arms, his small body trembling with pain and shock.

It was magnificent to witness— Harry's wild magic sweeping through the narrow hallway like a tornado. If Lily had any time to think, she would be overjoyed to find her son has inherited her talent.

"LEAVE NOW!" She screamed at James.

She grabbed Harry and tried to apparite, but Aurors had already placed a ward around the house.

Spell flew everywhere. Aurors were charging in now. In a stream of black robes, they were everywhere. Lily tried desperately to get away, shielding her son with her body and shooting spells rapidly.

She could vaguely hear James shouting at her to take Harry and run. Then, a stunner hit the back of her head and she knew no more.

* * *

**Author's disintegrating ramble:**

So the first chapter is basically a long infor-dump in a flash-back. What a terrible, terrible way to start. Don't blame me. Blame the plot bunnies! They are cannibals, I tell you. Yum, yum.

Honestly, I don't have an overall plan for this story, so I'm counting on those plot bunnies to breed. And breed fast. Basically, I love reading HP AU stories so I combined a brunch to make my own. (Does that make my story sort of fanfiction of fanfictions. Wow, fanfiception?) And I also love black humour, too bad I'm not funny at all. :(

There will be slash in the story —Tom/Harry and maybe others— other than that main ship, the other boats(lol) will be similar to canon. So Ron/Hermione … etc.

Please be patient with me and let me know if the story gets too confusing or something.

With love,

Coconut

 


	2. The Beginning

**Chapter 2**

**NOTE:** All the scenes with  _/PAST/_ indicate scenes that happened when Harry was younger. All other scenes are within the present, which is during Harry's 7th year.

* * *

 

_/PAST/_

Lily woke up to the most excruciating headache and her husband's screams.

She instantly reached for her wand, but it wasn't in its usual place, hidden in holsters of her sleeve. Her face felt cold and numb where it pressed against the marble floor and her left arm bent at an unnatural angle. Pain shot through her, reminding her that she was alive.

The screams continued.

Lily turned her face toward the sound, fear and nausea overtaking her. Her eyes hadn't adjusted to the dim-lights, so she could not recognize the two shadowy figures that stood over James, with their wands pointing toward him, no doubt casting the Cruciatus. Amidst the screams, they were laughing.

"NO!"

She cried and tried to reach him, but her legs were bound together so she could only crawl.

Her shaky palms felt cold and slippery against the polished marble floor. She barely crawled one meter before a boot pressed down hard on her hand. She yelped in agony and glanced up, hatred bursting and piercing in her brilliant green eyes.

"Hello, deary. Finally decided to join the party I see," her tormentor smirked. "Don't want miss the climax, do we?"

Bellatrix Lestrange loomed over her. The Death Eater grinned madly as she dug her heel into Lily's hand, twirling a wand  **—** Lily's wand, she recognized **—**  between her fingers.

A biting retort was on Lily's lips, but she swallowed it when she saw Bellatrix's other hand. Immediate terror and relief flooded Lily, as she choked down her tears. That bitch was holding onto her son.

Little Harry's body trembled when she met his eyes. His glasses were broken in three places and nasty bruises ran along his thin arms. But he was alive. Tears wet his face, causing his wild, dark curl to stick to his forehead. Lily absent-mindedly cursed that Potter hair. Oh, he looked so much like James that it hurts.

"Mummy, mummy." Harry cried out repeatedly.

"It's okay, baby," soothed Lily, despite not believing her own words. "Be brave for mummy."

"Oh yes, be brave. Itsy, bitsy, lion cubsy," Bellatrix mocked amidst her manic laughter, ruffling Harry's hair with false affection. "You'll need it."

"Alright, go ahead. Go tell you filthy Mudblood of a mother what we want."

The dark witch pushed Harry forward, still grasping onto the boy's wrist so he remained just out of Lily's reach. Her talons jabbed into Harry's cheek, carelessly, almost drawing blood.

"Tell her to  _beg_  for your life."

Harry could barely speak; his small voice frail and soft amongst the screams.

"Mummy... They… they want to know…where is uncle Sirius?"

Lily's eyes widened in surprise. She couldn't prevent the words from escaping her mouth.

"What? Why?!"

The madding grin on Bellatrix's blood-red lips grew even wider.

"Why? I could tell you. But then… I would have to kill you. Although I suppose since I'm going to kill you anyways, I could tell you  **—** " She tapped Lily's wand against her thigh and stepped back. "— Which just bring me back to my original dilemma. Decisions, decisions."

"What do you think? My dear," Bellatrix grabbed a handful of Harry's hair to tilt his head back, until their eyes met. Harry whimpered, tears running down his face.

"Aw, don't cry. I hate children who cry."

"ENOUGH! Leave him alone!" shouted Lily, the anger momentarily broke through her restraint.

Lily bowed her head low, her fiery red hair covering the despair and disgust on her face. She crawled toward Bellatrix (her own legs still bounded by magic) and kissed the edge of the Death Eater's robe.

"Please, please. Let... let me talk to James. We'll tell you everything, just let me talk to him."

"Awwww, is that it? I was looking forward to breaking you," Bellatrix pouted.

Then, she brightened up suddenly as she delivered a hard kick to Lily's face, which made a nasty crunching noise. Lily fell backward, her nose bled heavily, but she kept her face down and lay on the floor passively.

Lily wiped some blood from her face and rubbed a concealed circle into her right palm. Then, she pushed her hand onto the marble floor and began reticently probing the ward in the room.

Bellatrix was still talking, "I can't wait to see the look on his face, that blood-traitor cousin of mine, when I sent him your husband's head on a platter. That will teach him, how he dares to steal from me! FROM ME!"

As her magic slipped out of her hand, Lily felt calmer as she settled into her routine as a Ward Master.

_The first step of ward breaking: identify the ward— its type, its castor, its intentions and its weak points._

Her left arm still quivered with pain and it could barely support her weight. She worked as fast as she can. Hiding her concentration behind her hair, she passaged her magic through her blood and onto the floor, letting it mingle with the magic in the room. She didn't dare to glance at her son, lest to attract attention. She merely lay there submissively, pretending fear had overtaken her.

James' screams had stopped. She prayed that he wasn't dead.

As her concentration improved, Lily became aware of the room they were in.

It was large and grand, decorated with old stones and gothic architecture, much like the Great Hall of Hogwarts; she laid in the middle of the room, flanked by rows of enormous copper statues on either side. Others were in the room, at least ten others— powerful wizards and witches,  _Death Eaters_ , she thought— conversing quietly amongst themselves, ignoring the proceedings as if they witnessed torture daily.

_Maybe they did, Lily reminded herself._

But she wasn't looking for them. Her magic crawled along the floor, drawn toward the ward's epicenter like a magnet. Most anti-apparition wards used its caster as the anchor, if she could only find him and tainted him with her magic somehow; she may be able to rip a transient hole in the ward, just long enough for them to escape.

Lily frowned. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

The floor beneath her palm burned like hot coal, the ward lashed out at her violently. It was so angry, vile, and treacherous, unlike anything she had seen— thick black magic powered by an endless, horrible void. The darkness pressured her and Lily recoiled from the connection instantly.

A horrible realization arose in her, rising to her throat, bitter like bile. Lily looked up and stared straight into the red-eyes of the man across the room, leaning forward on his throne, oozing death and terror despite his casual manner.

Lily suppressed a hysterical laughter.  _How could she have missed him?_  That pale, waxy skin, that red, slit-like eyes, that flat, snake nostrils— she had seen his image everywhere.

Her humble family has been brought forth to the King of Britain—Dark Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort regarded her with indifference, before he addressed Bellatrix in a hissing voice. Instantly, the room became still, silent like the dead.

"Bella, how is the search progressing?"

Bellatrix licked her lips. She released Harry and pushed him onto Lily, before bowing her head toward her Lord.

"We have one suspect —Sirius Orion Black— my Lord," she replied graciously, tracing her fingers along her neckline to her ample bosom. "I sent Regulus after him, and unfortunately, that weasel managed to escape. But we have a lead, the Potters should be aware of his location."

"A lead?" Voldemort raised a none-existent eye-brow.

"Yes, my lord." Bellatrix nodded.

"Pettigrew!"

She snapped her finger and a short, stocky man emerged from the ranks.

"My…my lord," stuttered Pettigrew. "James Potter is Sirius Black's best friend. I am sure he... he must know where Sirius' hiding."

Lily covered Harry's mouth to prevent his surprised yelp. Her green eyes burned onto the rat-like man, nothing can describe the rage inside her. That coward didn't even have the courage to look at her, to acknowledge the friends whom he betrayed, whom he helped to murder.

"You better pray he does," menaced Voldemort. "For a spy, you are damn useless."

Then, he turned back to Bellatrix.

"I understand that you like to have fun, now and again, Bella. But do  _not_  waste my time. Have Severus bring some Veritaserum and get this done.  _Now_ —"

"Severus' out of the country for the week," mumbled Bellatrix; she clutched her dress unconsciously. "But I have them—" she pointed her wand in Lily's face, "I'll make him talk, my Lord. Let me—"

"ENOUGH."

Voldemort's blooming voice cut through the room like thunder, his magic resonated perilously as the Dark Lord's aura run furious. The Death Eaters all flinched and lowered their heads.

"I had enough of your excuses. You've  _disappointed_  me."

He pointed his wand toward them. Without thinking, Lily shielded Harry with her body. But the curse wasn't meant for them.

Instead, the pain curse hit Bellatrix, throwing her body into the air and it landed with a sickening thud. Lily's wand fell on the floor and rolled away from Bellatrix.

" _Bring him to me."_  The Dark Lord inclined his head toward James's sagging form on the floor.

James Potter looked half-dead, sweat and blood soaked his robe as he mumbled softly to himself, his muscle still twitching from residual of curses. Two giant lumps of men grabbed each of James' arms and dragged him forward physically. They dumped him in front of Voldemort.

"JAMES!"

Lily lunged forward, the binding on her legs had vanished (probably because Bellatrix lost her concentration). However, before she could reach him, someone casted a full-body binding on her. She fell backward, only to find Lucius Malfoy regarding her coolly, his face expressionless. Lily remembered he was a good friend of Severus Snape. Although she wasn't even sure of that, Lily hadn't spoken to Severus for years now.

Voldemort levitated James with a flick of his wand. He allowed the other man's face to be on the same height as his own.

"Tell me the location of Sirius Black," commanded the Dark Lord, a ringing power behind his words.

"NEVER!"

James snapped defiantly. His words barely auditable as blood gargled in his throat; it dripped onto the floor, shiny against white marble.

"Off course,  _Gryffindors_ ," nodded Voldemort. "We can do this the hard way if you so wish—"

Voldemort raised one bony finger to tilt James' face toward him. His red-eyes seared into James, burning through his skull.

James Potter screamed.

Something was clawing and ripping his mind apart. With his body suspended in mid-air, James thrashed and contorted in awkward angles. Physical pain no longer concerned his brain.

Lily sobbed as she could only watch helplessly. She barely noticed Harry, until he embraced her and buried his head in her robe.

"It's okay, mummy," whispered her little boy. "Please don't cry."

"What a waste of my time," announced Voldemort when it was finally over. "He doesn't know anything."

Then, the Dark Lord flicked his wand and a jet of green light hit James.

Lily watched, disoriented and shocked, as her husband's body hit the ground in slow motion. She thought he had turned his head to look at her one last time, before the curse engulfed him. Although his tattered robe was soaked in blood, his face was remarkably clean and she could see his brown eyes looking at her, vacant and lifeless.

Lily wept silently, clinging onto Harry with all her strength.

Voldemort wiped his hand on his robe, stood up and gestured for his Death Eaters to move forward. James' body lay next to his throne, already forgotten.

"Kerberus Nott," he called out. "You are in charge of this investigation going forward. Report to me in a week."

"Yes, my lord," answered a tall Death Eater; he had a medium-built, with black hair slicked back perfectly. Behind him, Bellatrix snarled but she didn't dare to protest.

"Yaxley, what is the report on the Nottingham reconstruction—"

The Death Eaters formed a semi-circle facing the Dark Lord. All ten of them stood rigid with their arms pressed firmly at their side; they spoke only when addressed by Voldemort, each giving a detail report of government progression or state secrets. Some empty spaces were left between them, presumably room reserved for absent Death Eaters.

Lily and Harry were trapped in the middle. The meeting proceeded as if they didn't exist. Lily patted her son's head absently, as James' dead eyes watched them from next to Voldemort's feet.

It would be impossible to break the Dark Lord's ward.

His power was too great. His ward conjured from pure darkness, full of malignance and madness, eager to rip any deserter apart.

_The only way to defeat the most powerful dark magic is to use the most powerful light magic._

When she was younger, Dumbledore once told her love is the most powerful form of magic. And Lily had laughed in the Headmaster's face. Therefore, after she became a Ward Master, she was surprised to receive a gift from Dumbledore, a rare and ancient book of restricted light spells.

The preface in the book had said that all magic required sacrifices— the only difference being amount and intent. Dark spells, like the Unforgivables, became restricted when they require the sacrifices of others; light spells became restricted when they require the sacrifices of the self.

"Harry, my dear, my sweet boy," whispered Lily. "Promise me something. Forget what you saw today. When you are free, run away and hide. Don't worry about me."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Lily shook her head and kissed him lightly. She didn't have time to think.

 _I'm sorry, honey,_  she thought.

Then, she bit her thumb to draw blood and begin to scribe runes onto Harry's t-shirt.

It didn't take her long to complete her work. Then, she dived for her wand and began her spell— an old and forgotten spell— the most terrible and wonderful of light magic.

 _James, Harry, James, Harry,_  she repeated in her head, over and over again until nothing else remained.

She willingly tore her magic from her body. The pain was excruciating. Lily felt her skin peel away, her veins burst one by one, as blood poured from every orifice— from her eyes, her nose, her ears and her mouth. But Lily kept the chanting going, whipping her wand above her head.

Her magic shattered into winds.

They scattered across the room and her essence clung onto the Death Eaters. Voldemort's ward turned vicious at once, as she had expected, and began attacking them in full force. Death Eaters squealed in pain. Together, they fell onto the floor and clawed frantically at the mark on their left arm.

"Stop moving," demanded Voldemort, pulling out his wand. "Stay calm, you fools."

Lily worked quickly, through the terrible pain of her soul leaking from her body. She weaved her magic— held together by sorrow and regret— into a protective blanket and wrapped it around her son. Her burst of power had created a momentary rift in Voldemort's ward.

She grabbed Harry and prepared to apparate. She couldn't breathe. Voldemort's ward was suffocating; its magic dug into her body like a million tiny hooks. Lily knew that, as soon as she tries to apparate, the ward will tear her body apart— the worst splinching imaginable— but Harry should be protected.

_And safe. And far away from here._

She pursed her lips and brought the image of King's Cross into her mind.

Then, the Dark Lord threw the killing curse toward them.

Without thinking, Lily's body reacted.

She shielded Harry with her arms, reaching for one last embrace, then, she closed her eyes. Her wand fell and rolled away. The green light enveloped them both. Lily's magic clung onto Harry, tagging and fighting against the ward, protecting him from the world.

The ward's magic boiled in rage; its anger flared up again as it found the lifeless body of its target. It hissed like it was alive and converged on her, lifting her toward the ceiling before ripping her to pieces.

* * *

 

_/PAST/_

Harry froze when his mother's body exploded in front of him.

Her blood rained on him, soaking him like a wet rat. For a moment, no one moved. Lily's body fell to the ground, nothing more than a mush of flesh and bones, barely held together by her robe. The only thing Harry recognized was her vibrant red hair, now sticky with blood and almost peeling away from her skull.

"That was interesting," intoned a cruel voice. It sounded so far away. "Impressive piece of magic. Nevertheless, a failure, as expected from a mudblood."

Harry looked up and found Voldemort's scarlet eyes. He felt nothing but rage—pure rage rampaged through his small body, jolting and gnawing at his mind, like the magic that had destroyed his mother.

"Die, you monster, DIE!" screamed Harry.

His young voice echoed rather pathetically in the empty chamber.

He charged forward, running toward the Dark Lord, covered in blood and bared his teeth like a wild animal. Harry moved without thinking, he just couldn't bear to stay next to that thing of blood and flesh, unfurled on the floor.

Voldemort kept his eyes on the boy's face, only barest of eye movement suggested his surprise. With a wave of his wand, he easily threw the small boy backward.

Harry flew a good five meters before landing on his back with a loud, crunching noise. He felt his left arm broke, but he stumbled up and charged again. His mother's magic still wrapped around him. It danced on his skin as his body absorbed its energy, subduing the pain in the process.

Again, Voldemort flung Harry back through the air, the boy's body flailing like a rag-doll.

Still, Harry kept coming.

Finally, the Dark Lord placed him under a full-body bind and pulled him toward the throne. An invisible hand forced Harry to kneel in front of Voldemort. The older man peered down at him with mild curiosity.

"I will kill you! I will kill you! I WILL KILL YOU!"

Little Harry roared with all his strength. His green eyes glistened brilliantly with rage and despair. His magic crackled around him— a power he never knew he had— a force that has awaking now.

Voldemort held up one hand to prevent the Death Eaters from interfering.

He laughed, a cold, spiteful sound.

"Kill me? A little rat like you? Many great wizards have tried and failed. What make you so special?"

Voldemort twirled his wand lazily. "You do have potential, boy, I'll admit it. And I hate to waste potential, even annoying, reckless Gryffindor ones."

Voldemort pointed for a sandy-haired Death Eater to step forward.

"Salem, you are a healer, right? What would happen, were I to cast a Total Obliviation spell on a six-year-old?"

The man gave Harry a brief once-over.

"My lord, most likely it will destroy his mind. On the off chance it doesn't, though, it will cause complete amnesia. He will forget his name, his parents—  _everything_."

The Dark Lord nodded. He lowered his wand to Harry's temple.

"Be grateful for your luck. I'll spare your life today. As for your mind, that's up to fate. I like the look in your eyes, boy. I do hope we will meet again."

Red-eyes scorched onto green ones.

" _Obliviate_!"

* * *

 

_/PAST/_

When Harry came to, he was laying in St. Mungo's Hospital, bandaged up to his toes. Two Aurors were there to greet him. They smiled warmly and told him they were his father's colleagues. They told him an explosion had occurred at his house and could he please recount whatever he remembers.

But the problem was Harry remembered everything.

_Especially, Peter Pettigrew._

Thus, he told them he can't recall anything and asked blankly if they could tell him who he is. The Aurors shared a concerned look and shuffled out.

Throughout the entire week, many people shuffled in and out of Harry's hospital room— healers, mind menders, Aurors, social workers, and his parents' friends. Harry didn't want to speak to any of them. So he just pretended to be sick and kept his mind as blank as possible.

In the end, somehow, he ended up being adopted by Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, because their only son — Draco Lucius Malfoy — was a squib. It caused quite the scandal too.

It wasn't until years later, when Harry met Tom that he realized why he remembers.

Harry was a natural occlumen, someone who was born with the gift of mind protection. So naturally, memory charms, even one casted by the most powerful wizards, failed on him. Off course, no one had suspected this, because no occlumen —natural or otherwise— had ever activated their power at the tender age of six.

Opening of the mind required powerful magic; normally, one tends to start occlumency training at seventeen. A natural occlumen might advance faster and master the art at fifteen, but no one had done it earlier.

 _No one_ — _that is_ — _except for Harry._

Tom had said his power awoke due to him absorbing his mother's magic, tricking his body into believing he was of age. Harry didn't care how it happened. All he cared was that it did happen.

Thus, Harry remembered. He wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

* * *

Harry always dreamed of the same things.

_His mother's lush, red hair floating in a pool of blood. His father's vacant, brown eyes gazing through him._

_A pair of red eyes with snake-like pupil._

Harry felt something on his arm and all trance of the nightmare left him. He snapped into action on instinct. Promptly, he sat up, his eyes still unfocused and sluggish, but his body moved with the precision of a soldier— years of training had conditioned his body, horned his senses, and made him paranoid. He reached out and grabbed the intruder's arm, jerking the boy forward with excessive force, his wand pointing steadily at the other's throat.

"Good morning, brother dear," the voice sounded calm and bored.

Draco Malfoy's icy blue-eyes fixed onto Harry's lethargic face. He casually pushed Harry's wand away and called out in his usual, arrogant drawl.

"Time to get up. We have transfiguration in an hour."

"How many times do I have to tell you—  _don't_  do that," hissed Harry, but he released the boy at once and plopped back onto bed. "I swear to Salazar, next time, I'm going to  _curse_  you for real."

"You're welcome to try," was the blonde's answer. His pale blue eyes narrowed as they turn to a dangerous shade of red.

A dark aura rushed out of the lean, pale boy, a surge of power so wild that Harry's skin tickled with electricity. The boy's dark magic engulfed Harry's senses, reminding him this boy was not his brother.

 _Hmmm_ , as if Harry could ever forget, even for a moment,  _Tom Riddle_ — his friend, his tormentor, his protector, his teacher,  _his bonded one_.

With Harry, Tom could be cruelly gentle and brutally honest. Between the two of them, there would be no acts of model student, popular Head Boy, prim and proper heir; no mercy or pleasantries when they are alone. All pretence forgotten and masks peeled away to remind Harry that Tom was no mere mortal, but an entity born from darkness, power and desire.

_Power from the diary, from Harry's magic, and from his mother's sacrifice._

Harry ignored him.

Tom rarely scared him, not anymore.

Sometimes, Harry remembered that day like it was yesterday, the day he and Draco summoned Tom from the diary, convinced by his sweet lies that they had found a guardian angel.

 _Someone who could help Draco with his squib problem and someone who could guide Harry on his quest for revenge_.

_Ah, how naive they were!_

Harry surveyed the room and saw it was empty.

They were alone, Harry's mind drowsy with forgotten dreams, with an irritated Tom Riddle standing beside his bed. Harry signed and, once again, he wished for death.

"Thank you for your help,  _Draco_ ," intoned Harry pleasantly, using the same mocking drawl. "Please go have breakfast. I will join you in a minute."

Tom's eyes narrowed. His magic flared like Hell's flame, a salient warning, no different from the rattling of poisonous vipers. Without another word, he threw open Harry's cover and pulled the boy from his bed.

This man was no Malfoy, no more than Harry was.

Harry smirked inwardly. Tom Riddle always hated when Harry calls him Draco, because he wasn't Draco Malfoy and Harry was the only person in the entire world who knew that.

Although, even to this day, Harry wasn't sure what Tom really is.

Oh, there were clues, off course. From the beginning, he knew that Tom had been a Hogwarts student fifty-years-ago, a parselmouth and a dark wizard with a vendetta. Tom had told Harry that he was the real Slytherin heir, that Voldemort stole his crown and Tom intended to get it back. But Harry didn't believe him. Through trials and travails, Harry learned —a long time ago —to never trust Tom's words.

In his early years, Harry had searched high and low for Tom's true nature, but Tom thawed his every attempt. Harry was too young, then, to play mind games and Tom got whatever he wanted from Harry. By the time Harry learned his mistakes, it was too late.

Tom was a controlling bastard. Always was and always will be. And he was never letting go of Harry.

"Release me," hissed Harry, trying to pull his arm free. But Tom wouldn't budge.

Harry moved without warning. He shuttled closer to Tom. Bending his arm at an awkward angle, he wiggled enough room to deliver a hard kick straight at the other's knees; then, using the twisting momentum of his upper body, Harry shoved Tom off balance and wrenched his arm free.

His hits were brutal and his aim true.

Tom taught him how to fight, how to kill, how to aim for the softest meat and vital organs. Although Tom never was a fan of physical combat, he thought it was vulgar and beneath wizards who wield high powers. Still, Tom was a pragmatist at heart. He understood how useful hand-to-hand combat can be, how much wizards mistakenly underestimate a wandless opponent, how a quick knife at the enemy's throat can save a life.

_Or end another._

Harry loved it, though. He revelled in the sport of blood and sweat. The physicality and ferocity of fighting woke him, made him feel alive. Besides, he tended to get so worn out that he can just drift asleep, exhaustion preventing his brain from concocting and keeps the nightmares at bay.

Soon, they were trading punches. Their bodies entangled in a violent brawl, tumbling onto Harry's bed. Punches and jabs landed everywhere, although they carefully avoided each other's faces. After all, they still had to keep up the façade— as the pair of noble, sophisticated Slytherin brothers, as the future leaders of the magical upper class, as a symbol of friendship between Light and Dark.

Both boys were acutely aware of the roles they played in society. And they always played it perfectly. So perfectly that no one suspected the treacheries and murders they committed— both together and against each other.

Finally, Tom managed to gain the upper hand. Harry's arms became tangled in his bed sheet and Tom took the opportunity to pin him to his bed. Tom's right hand twisted Harry's wrists above him as he straddled Harry's waist with his legs, effectively immobilising the dark-haired boy.

They stared at each other in silence.

Harry was thankful that the room is vacant, since this was a rather compromising position.  _And, boy, do rumours travel fast in Slytherin._

Absently, he wondered if Tom had gotten rid of the other Slytherins on purpose. He must've known Harry was having nightmares and how emotional that left him. Tom loved to provoke him these days. Harry suspected that Tom disapproved when Harry became too good at the game, too adapt with his mask, too clever to remain a fun toy for Tom.

Some days, Harry wondered if Tom is as tired of pretending as he is. With so many secrets and so many lies, in a bizarre and unhealthy way, they could only be themselves around each other.

Tom traced a long, slender finger along Harry's face, his skin cold as snow.

Harry's muscle stiffened as red eyes met his green ones. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his pride won't let him. A slight smirk appeared on Tom's red lips.

"Fuck off," snarled Harry, rising to the bait like always.

Tom chuckled darkly. "You never learn, do you, Harry Potter?"

Tom's eyes swirled in scarlet, blood-lust and amusement plain on his face, twisting Draco's delicate features into something more sinister. A deadly predator, trapped in the body of a seventeen-years-old.

"How could you hope to defeat me, when I taught you everything you know?"

With great tenderness, Tom brushed aside Harry's dark, wild curls and stroked his cheek. He pressed down on Harry's lighting-shaped scar, causing intense pain to shoot through him. The Ouroboros mark on Harry's back burned upon Tom's command.  _A warning against disobedience_.

Tom always liked to keep him on a tight leash.

And Harry hated him for it, so he fights back every step of the way.

"Get off me, you sadistic bastard. I'm too exhausted to deal with your games right now," Harry thrashed about in anger, but Tom's hands held firm.

"Oh, dear!" Tom shook his head in mock disproval. "Aren't we feeling violent this morning?"

"I always feel violent around you." Harry glared.

Harry breathed heavily. Tom's magic was so familiar to him that it was simultaneously comforting and excruciating. He bit his lips to stop the groans of pain. Momentarily, Harry wondered if he could break Tom's back with his knee. Then, he remembered this was Draco's body, which Tom borrowed, and he didn't want to hurt Draco.

" _Stay still_. You know what I want—" Tom leaned forward, his face so close that they were almost nose-to-nose.

Harry didn't dare to look away. At this range, he could count the other's eyelashes.  _Hmmmm_ , he never noticed Draco has yellow eyelashes.

"—And you know there is no point fighting me," whispered Tom, soft but no less threatening.

Harry went limp.

He signed. "Fine. Just get it over with."

" ** _Then, stay still,_** " Tom murmured in parseltongue, his breath felt hot on Harry's ear. Tom's voice sounded husky and threatening in that language, not like Draco's usual soft tone at all.

Suddenly, Tom pressed his lips firmly against Harry's own.

Unlike his fingers, Tom's lips were smooth and hot like fire.

Harry's green eyes widened at the contact. No matter how many times they've done it, Harry never got used to feeling of Tom's lips on his own, sucking his magic and draining his energy. It was a strange sensation, but not exactly a bad one, more like unnerving, exhausting, and, as much as Harry hated to admit it, thrilling.

This was their deal.

In exchange for Tom's knowledge, Harry had to share his magic with the spirit. Because Draco Malfoy was a squib and Tom Riddle was not exactly alive, Tom needed raw life force to function as a wizard— for magic do not bow to the dead or to imitations of the living.

Harry recalled the vassalage oath that bonded him to Tom.

A silly, little oath that had turned into a soul bond, a connection mended by a mother's love and forged by shared minds.  _A connection which grown to encompass his whole life._

Their interaction went on for a little longer than necessary. Finally, Harry had enough. He twisted his head side-ways, breaking the kiss, and then rammed his forehead into Tom. Then, he pushed Tom off and rolled off the bed, landing on unsteadied feet. He felt dead tired, despite the adrenaline rushing through him.

Harry's heart beat rapid like drums, making it hard for him to breathe. Unconsciously, he touched his lips and his cheeks burned.

Tom laughed.

"All this time, and still you're not used to my touch. Very adorable, brother dear."

"Shut up," grumbled Harry.

He looked at the blonde boy, sprawled on the floor, and realized it wasn't very wise to anger the homicidal spirit, who probably knows a hundred ways to murder a man and many more of torture. Especially, since said spirit was in the process of training him to become an assassin.

Harry reached a hand to help Tom off the floor. Tom took it in a tight grip and his custom smirk was back, making his red eyes dance with amusement.

"You know, if you just wanted to exchange magic, you could have asked," murmured Harry, his blush expanding under Tom's stares. "I'll do it. I'm a man of my words."

Tom's smirk grew. "Ah, I suppose I could have asked. But where's the fun in that?"

Harry wanted to punch him again.

Tom turned away from him and walked over to his bed to grab his textbooks.

"You have training, today at nine," he announced offhandedly.

"But Quidditch practise doesn't end till ten. I'm the captain. I have to be there." Harry glared back, unwilling to relinquish the few hours of freedom he seldom enjoyed. "And don't tell me you are unaware of it. Half of my team are your followers."

"Oh, more than half." Tom shrugged. His eyes returned to its crystal blue as he began to brush his blond hair back in place.

Tom's mood was always better after he took in Harry's magic. Only then, could Harry see a trace of his gentle, timid brother left in Tom.

Although it was better to keep that a secret, since Tom despised Draco, with every fibre of his being.

Tom used his wand to smooth the wrinkles on his robe. At once, he returned to the impeccable Malfoy heir.

"I'll see you at nine," called Tom before gliding out the room.

* * *

 

**Author's ramble 2.0:**

English is not my first language, so I tend to misspell words and have problem with grammatical consistency.

Please help me by pointing out my mistakes. I'll correct what I can.

Thank you,

Coconut

P.s. Extra thanks to Guest for pointing out that I wrote, "because their only son – Draco Malfoy – was a  **squid** ". Um… unintentional lulz? Ewwwwww, Narcissa, I didn't know you are into tentacles! (For those uninitiated, I suggest you google tentacles anime. Although I got to warn you, what is seen cannot be unseen.)

P.p.s. I don't know if Padfoot's full name is Sirius Orion Black, but it sounds good to me, 'cause that means his initials is  **SOB**  (Son of a B***h). Ha, that's why he's a dog, right? :P

 


	3. A Girl

**Chapter 3**

Quidditch practise went quite well, Harry thought. He meant since no one has broken anything— yet — and they finally ran some plays. (Which was quite an accomplishment, since Crabbe and Goyle were on his team and they were as thick as the Great Wall of China. Harry only accepted them because they got good strength and one dogged, aggressive streak when it comes to hurting the opponents.)

Harry stripped off his sweaty uniform and cast a cleaning charm on himself. He splashed some cold water on his face and was about to get dressed, when a hand threw casually around his shoulder.

Harry swatted the hand away in annoyance. He really didn't like physical contact, especially against his bare skin— it made him feel vulnerable and exposed, uncomfortable with the presumed familiarity.

He turned to face Theodore Nott, the black-haired Chaser, who, apparently, was his self-proclaimed best friend. Harry signed inwardly, for some bloody reason, the tall weedy boy took a liking to him the day they met. The boy insisted on being friend with Harry and, despite his frosty rejections, Nott persisted.

At first, it made Harry uncomfortable since Nott's father was a high-ranking Death Eater and an accomplice on that fateful day. But even Harry had to admit defeat sometimes. Eventually, he grudgingly accepted Theodore's friendship. Still, that didn't mean Harry appreciates when the boy dripping sweat all over his neck.  _Honestly, some people just have no concept of personal space._

"Nice tattoo, captain," announced Theodore cheerfully, smacking Harry on the back. "I got to say, it doesn't look like your style, kinda of big and scary, isn't it?"

"Why, I was feeling particularly patriotic that day," replied Harry, pushing Theodore off him once again. "How does it look?"

"Great, magnificent, very manly," joked Theodore. "That's why I'm surprise. I mean— you look more like the 'I love mom' type of person."

Harry fixed Theodore with a particularly nasty look and the boy instantly recognized the tasteless nature of his words. Theodore opened his mouth to apologize, but Harry cut him off.

"If you have time to gawk at me, Theodore, why don't you do something constructive for the team? For examples, our broomsticks need waxing and shine. After all, we have a match right after Halloween weekend, I think Slytherin deserves to look pristine and perfect, don't you?"

"WHAT! Why?" whined Theodore loudly. "Get the rookie to do it." He motioned to the small boy standing behind them.

"I'll do it, captain, Harry, sir. I'm more than happy to."

The boy replied as soon as Harry's eyes turned on him. He nodded enthusiastically in a way that reminded Harry of his house elf Dobby.

Theodore snickered.

"Sure you would. If Harry asked you to jump of the Astronomy tower, I'm sure you are more than happy to, right, kid?"

The boy's abnormally large eyes widened and he turned to Harry pleadingly, a gesture which Harry ignored pointedly.

Sometimes he wondered why he allowed young Markel Lestrange to be on the Quidditch team. The sandy-haired second-year was slight and clumsy, with average speed and a weak throw. Harry had given him the position of reserve Chaser, but secretly knew that Lestrange would never step onto the field.

He had given Lestrange the position for his own protection. Being on the team offered its own special status, and Harry hoped it would be enough to stop bullies from hurting Markel. Markel Lestrange was the rat of Slytherin, because everyone knew that Markel was the bastard child of Rodolphus Lestrange. And in Slytherin, where status was everything, Markel was a nobody and he would be forced to live like it.

The first time Harry saved Markel was an accident; ever since then, the boy had worshiped him like a hero, which, Harry discovered, can be mighty annoying. But, in the end, he was stuck with the boy because no one else cared.

 _At least Markel is good at something,_ Harry thought,  _anyone who can make Bellatrix Lestrange miserable is alright in my book._

"Well," said Harry as he struggled into his t-shirt. "Why don't two of you work together then. I think–"

Harry bit his lip as the tattoo on his back burned.  _Tom was calling him, and getting very impatient, so it seemed._

Harry rubbed the tattoo, tracing its heat with his fingers.

The serpent's painted head rested on his shoulder, its body wrapping along his back, down to his pelvis before its tail returned to its jaw to form the perfect circle– and forming a traditional Ouroboros. The detailed and brightly-coloured snake coiled around pale flesh, so terribly real and seemingly alive whenever Tom called upon him. Depending on Tom's mood, its scales gleamed varyingly, in flushes of gold and red, or blue and green, or silver and grey. Right now, it burned like hot iron and Harry imagined it would look as red as blood.

Many had told him it was a magnificent piece of art work, but Harry couldn't see it. To him, it was the shackle that bonded him to Tom Riddle, an eternal reminder of the freedom he had foregone in his quest for revenge.

_Although he never regretted it. Never._

Harry walked out of the locker room and sprinted across the field.

The pain on his back was distracting, Harry was very surprised when he ran smack into someone at the castle's door. A girl in Gryffindor uniform fell to the floor, her long red-hair spread around her.

"I'm very sorry, Miss… Weasley." Harry helped her up graciously. "Are you alright?"

"Um… yes." Ginny Weasley smiled brightly at him.

Her cheeks looked pink and her hands were cold. Harry deduced that meant she had been outdoors recently, in the chilling wind.  _Why would a girl be out on the grounds at this hour?_  Then, he remembered she just became the Gryffindor Seeker, perhaps she was spying on them?

He regarded her suspiciously.

Ginny shifted under his glare.

"Um… actually, it's just Ginny, please. I mean there're a lot of us—so —"

The burning sensation intensified, once again reminding him to stay on time. Harry suppressed a grimace.

Harry bowed slightly to her, remembering his etiquette for dealing with pure-blood ladies.  _Were the Weasleys pure-bloods, anyways?_

"Alright, just Ginny." He smiled cordially, "I hope you're not hurt, because I am looking forward to our match next week."

"Oh!" She looked very surprised. "Oh! You knew that? I didn't think you even noticed me."

Harry shrugged, "Hermione told me."

And he added silently to himself,  _I don't know why she thinks I am interested in her Gryffindor gossips._

"Right, Hermione!" She yelped again. "She, um, asked me to return this to you—" she handed him a heavy book.

Harry glanced down at it. It was his copy of  _One Thousand and One Potions for Medical Use,_  which Hermione borrowed from him last week.

"She asked  _you_  to return it to me?"

"Yes, I knew you would be here—" Ginny blabbed on, looking redder if possible. "Because Dean mentioned Slytherin had practise every Thursday night."

"It couldn't wait until morning?" Harry raised an eye-brow. "We do have potions together."

Harry watched Ginny splutter under his glance. Ah, off course she was spying on them. Does the girl think he was stupid? Hermione would never ask her to go visit the Slytherin Quidditch team on her own, late at night, especially since they would see each other in class anyways.

"Well… er…Also, actually, I wanted to talk to you, about something." She muttered, staring at her shoes.

Harry waited impatiently, while she examined her shoes. The pain on his back worsened. Now the tattoo pulsed in beats, regular rhythm like a heart.

 _Screw Tom,_  Harry thought angrily, _I will not be summoned like some pet._

He turned toward Ginny.

"Would you like me to walk you to the Gryffindor tower? We can talk on the way."

She returned a grateful smile and walked with him.

Harry immediately regretted his decision. He forgot how  _friendly_  Gryffindors can act. Never skilled in the fine arts of conversation, they always insisted on broadcasting very mundane details about their lives, as if anyone's actually interested.

She blabbered through the whole walk. Right now, she went on a tangent about how she recently broken up with Dean Thomas, the Gryffindor Chaser, when they finally arrived at the Fat Lady's portrait.

"There you are," signed Harry in relief, before turning around. "Good night, Miss Weasley."

"WAIT!" yelled Ginny after him. Then, she grabbed his hand, hard enough to pull him back. Her face was as red as her hair, but her blue-eyes shone bravely, which momentarily surprised Harry. He turned to her as she spoke.

"It's Halloween... this weekend. And... we have Hogsmeade visits…I… I know I am being very presumptuous, because a Malfoy wouldn't … but I have to try."

She took a deep breath.

"Harry, I was wondering if you would—"

The pain on Harry's back exploded. He dropped her hand like hot coal and backed way. The cold stone wall felt soothing on his blistering skin. Harry whipped his wand in direction of the familiar dark aura.

"Presumptuous don't begin to describe you, my dear." A cold voice drifted toward them.

"Malfoy?!" shirked Ginny, barely recognizing Draco's form under the brutal, crushing dark magic.

Tom strode toward them, a deadly calm expression on his face, in complete contrast with the rage boiling in his magic. It flared up and touched them both, effectively silencing them.

Ginny backed away instantly, looking bewildered as if she couldn't believe she was looking at their beloved Head Boy.

Tom ignored her and turned toward Harry, who clutched his wand tightly. Tom pushed Harry against the wall, one hand on the other's chest. He leaned in to whisper in Harry's ear.

"Hello, brother dear. It seems you've forgotten our appointment."

He spared one glance toward Ginny.

"Perhaps a pretty, little bird distracted you? After all, you always had a soft spot for useless things."

The pain on his back lessened upon Tom's touch, which was the only reason Harry hasn't pushed him away. Through their contact, Harry felt Tom's emotion seep through his Occlumen shield, a swirl of darkness that he didn't dare to untangle. Harry noticed, with some panic, that Tom's blue-eyes begin to swirl red.

"Calm the fuck down," Harry gritted out.

He had to lean into Tom to whisper, so Ginny wouldn't hear them. He was acutely aware of how strange this may appear to her, with his back against the wall, Tom's hand holding his t-shirt and their lips barely inches apart. She squealed something, but Tom's magic smothered her instantly.

Still focusing his eyes on Harry, Tom proclaimed loudly, way louder than necessary for their proximity.

" _Ah_ , I see. So another mindless suitor decided to go after the Potter Heir. Well, well, haven't we seen this before?"

While continuing to ignore Ginny, Tom turned his ear toward Harry as if listening to him. At the same time, his hand shot up to muff Harry's mouth, and Harry noticed the angle was constructed precisely so Ginny couldn't catch a glimpse of their interactions.

"Who's this girl, then? Oh… a nobody. I see. So, a mudblood? No? You say... Oh, yes, a blood-traitor. Not much better— I'm afraid.  _A Weasley?"_

He let out a cruel laugh.

"Oh my! Now, that is a terrible joke. The pathetic Weasel wants to date the Slytherin prince? Well, one of the Slytherin princes, at least. Unless she wants to date me as well— excuse me— just the thought of it makes me want to barf."

"NO!" Something seemed to break in Ginny's voice. She struggled out her words, breathing in gulps as if underwater. "I am not—"

Tom waved his free hand to silence her.

"I understand why she's interested, though. Do you want to know, Harry? Yes?... I'll tell you then. The silly girl's father lost his job recently. Got caught smuggling Muggle machinery, I believe. Pathetic... Really... Some people will do anything for a galleon, wouldn't they? Including selling themselves, I imagine. Tisk, tisk. If you think they were dirt poor before—and now—and now I'm surprised they haven't starved to death yet. Hmmm… maybe some of them have. Who knows, there are so many of them."

Tom tightened his grip on Harry. Harry shivered at the complete blankness on his brother's face, even as those cruel words fell seamlessly, as if Tom's only reciting a script.

"So now she's got her eyes on the Malfoy money. At least, she's smart enough to know a good meal ticket. Right? Harry?—"

Tom's eyes trained on Harry's green ones. They hold him in a way to make Harry feel they were the only people in the world. Harry blinked in confusion,  _he should do something_. He realized Tom never even acknowledge Ginny once throughout the whole conversation.

"NO." Ginny choked out. The girl had curled into a small ball at the foot of the portrait, her shoulder shook with every breath she took.

Although Harry couldn't see her face, he was struck by the quietness of her sobbing. Its laboured effort swayed her red hair back and forth, disturbingly similar to how his mother had cried on him that night.

" _ **Enough**_ ," whispered Harry harshly, unknowingly slipping into Parseltongue. He wrenched his arm free and pointed his wand in Tom's face.

" _ **You are going to attack me? For her?!"**_  Tom narrowed his eyes, scarlet coloured his iris completely.

Harry pursed his lips; he really needed to get Tom out of here. They worked too hard to blow their covers now. Harry signed. He couldn't understand why Tom was acting so irrationally.

He pushed Tom away gently, painfully aware of the wrath pouring from the other's magic, and walked over to help Ginny stand up. She didn't struggle against him, but she didn't acknowledge him either. Her eyes were puffy and unfocused. Beside them, the Fat Lady regarded him suspiciously.

He pressed his wand to her back and casted a Coercion charm. Finally, she turned her attention to him.

"Harry?" She whispered.

"Ginny, you are tired, ain't you?" Harry smiled pleasantly, then, adding a little force behind his charm.

She nodded.

"You are having a bad dream. Go to your dorm and sleep it off. Can you do that for me?"

Harry intoned sweetly, his magic flowing to her, gentle and mesmerizing, his light magic responded well to her and it surrounded her easily.

She nodded again.

She automatically turned to the portrait, announced the password and climbed in without protest.

"You know," commented Tom offhandedly, "it's pointless if she forgets everything."

Harry fixed him with an annoyed look. Through their bond, Harry felt Tom's mood settle down—to a more serene state. Although Tom's mind was never truly calm. Everything within Tom burned with a passion— anger and hatred and obsession; it simultaneously awed and terrified Harry.

But right now Harry was just rather annoyed. He felt exhausted and confused, and he didn't want to spend the night cleaning after Tom.

"Oh, and one more thing."

Harry turned to the portrait and lowered his wand to the Fat Lady.

" _Obliviate_."

* * *

 

**Author's rambling:**

Ah, Tommy, you totally over-reacted. Harry barely noticed Ginny before and now he's gonna remember her. I probably had too much fun with that scene and it went on way longer than necessary. I need to learn to be economic with my words. Man...

I still have two exams next week. So, in conclusion, I hate my life. But I can probably write faster now my brother fixed my computer.

 


	4. First Impressions

**Chapter 4**

_/PAST/_

Harry was nine-years-old when he discovered Tom Riddle's diary.

Harry blamed the whole thing squarely on Lucius Malfoy. After all, a wizard should have warded his secrets better, much better than allowing a child to break in and get his hands on one of the darkest artefact ever known to man.

Yes, it was all Lucius' fault— even if Harry was the person who first noticed the diary and promptly stole it…er, he meant borrowed it.

Harry had found it, hidden in the shelves of the secret room in the Malfoy library. The ward around the room was surprisingly easy to break. Harry used Draco's blood and some rudimentary runes to pry open a door behind the fire place, having previously seen Narcissa disappear into the same spot. He suspected Lucius had eased the wards intentionally, to allow Narcissa access. In any case, Lucius had nothing to fear, the Malfoy Manor was one of the most heavily protected places in all of Britain, and the only one who shared his blood—his only son — was a shameful squib.

Furthermore, Lucius never knew the extent of Harry's talents, because young Harry Potter never registered on his mind. After all, British treasury secretary Malfoy— popularly known as the Coinmaster— was the head of the Department of Plenty and a very, very busy man. As he was fond of saying, _very busy, indeed, for the man who manages the whole British economy, a terribly challenging job, you know, so challenging that only a Malfoy or a pack of demonic mules can accomplish it_.

As a result, Malfoy Senior was never home. For the few hours that he was, he focused the entirety of his attention on the elegantly beautiful Narcissa.

Lucius had treated his adopted son like a chair; only occasionally acknowledging the boy's existence— as a curiosity to be paraded out at parties or as an exotic pet for his wife. Over time, Harry learned to appreciate his lack of interest, because it allowed him freedom to prepare his own devious plots.

Besides, he could never see Lucius as his father. Not when the blonde's cold eyes appeared every night in his dreams, regarding him apathetically as green lights engulfed his parents.

The secret library held many wonderful things — ancient books of restricted dark and light spells, atlas of long-forgotten places, secretive and illegal research documents, even deeds and bonds of Malfoy properties that were deemed unsuitable for Gringotts.

Almost every ancient house had a stash like this. Knowledge was power and the pure-bloods had tons of it. Hidden away and accumulated for centuries, their information network expanded beyond the imagination of ordinary folks, and served to forever propagate their status on top of wizarding hierarchies.

One day, Harry was casually browsing for curses that generate Dragonscale Intestinal Ulcer. (Although Harry never found it, because, as he discovered later, he remembered its name wrong. The curse didn't exactly target one's intestine,  _no_ , its effect was more insidious as it targeted another body-part— a soft, rod-shaped, uniquely male organ.)

He noticed a thin notebook tucked inside a gigantic, rusting tome. It was unique in its commonality, a simple little thing in wore-out black covers and the name  _T.M. Riddle_ listing in faded letter.

Harry noticed the book was bought fifty years ago somewhere on Vauxhall Road in central London.  _A Muggle article in the Malfoys' secret cache?_  Harry flipped through it and saw it was empty.

He tucked the book into his robe. It was the only item in the secret library small and thin enough for him to  _borrow_  without being overtly conspicuous. Its leather cover felt cold against his bare skin—very ordinary indeed— but Harry thought he detected the faintest pulsing magic in its pages.

That night he spent all his free time studying the notebook. He tabbed it; he jabbed it; he tore it; he soaked it in soapy water and tossed it into the fireplace. Curiously, no matter what he had done, the book remained as it were, wore and crumpled and completely unharmed.

Excited, Harry dipped his quill into ink and dropped a blot on the first page of the diary.

The ink shone brightly for second and then it disappeared, as though being sucked into the pages.

Smiling, Harry wrote in a rapid scrawl, "My name is Harry Potter."

The words shone momentarily on the page before they, too, disappeared without a trace.

Harry waited and waited, then nothing happened.

He frowned, surely there's more? Harry traced his thumb over the smooth papyrus, he definitely felt magic underneath its layers, a sensation of pricking heats.

Harry wrote again, a little bit tidier this time and his pen etched the paper harshly.

"Reveal your secrets to me."

At last, something happened. Oozing back out of the page, came his previous writings, in his own ink, abet with a hand-writing not his own. Here they were: " _My name is Harry Potter_ " and " _Reveal your secrets to me."_

Harry bit his lip and tried writing something else. Every time he got the same results— whenever Harry demands the diary to reveal its secret and signs his name along with it, the diary would regurgitate his pervious writing in full, although reproduced in a different hand-writing.

He couldn't help but feel disappointed. Somehow he thought the thing would be more than a fancy recording device. Harry truly believed he had stumbled on a Malfoy family heirloom. Yet, eventually, he did find a use for the diary. Harry used it to hide his notes. He made a habit of sneaking to the secret library and copy down dark spells. Off course, he couldn't comprehend them at his age, but the writing provided him with an odd serenity. Besides, it gave him something to do, lounging around the vacuous Manor with Draco all day can really drive a boy bonkers.

Few weeks after his initial discovery, Tom finally contacted him. While Harry was rapidly scribbling down the ten fire curses, words he never written appeared on the page.

The writing scrawled, " _you should know, Harry Potter, curses are not the only way to kill a person."_

Harry was startled by the words, so much so he almost upset his ink bottle. The unfamiliar writing sank back into the pages, and vanished just as sudden as it appeared.

Harry paused and wrote back hesitantly. "What?— I'm not trying to kill anyone."

" _Oh? My apologies,"_ came the reply. _"And honestly, I don't care either way_.  _I was just bored by all the dark spells you copied. I don't mind if you are particularly studious, Harry. But could I employ you try a different subject? Potions, perhaps? Poisons, for example, can be quite useful. A change of scenery is always nice, you see, maybe even necessary for one's sanity._ "

Harry paused, his quill hovering over the diary.

"You… you are sentient?"

" _In a way."_  The words appeared faster now, it strokes smoothed out and Harry could fully appreciate the mysterious, elegant calligraphy.

" _After all, I am a diary. Sentimentality is within our nature. Ah, where are my manners. My name is Tom Riddle, pleasure to meet you, Harry. I've waited so long for you."_

"You waited for me?" replied Harry suspiciously. In the background, he thought he heard Narcissa calling for him

" _Yes, I waited for fifty years. For a lucky soul to free me from this boredom. It seems you are it. Congratulations, my child, you have won the prize of my gratitude."_

Tom left the words lingering on the pages, as if daring Harry to ask for his reward.

"Really? Why didn't you reply sooner?" demanded Harry, writing so furious his fingers stained with ink.

" _I was asleep for a long time. It'll take me a while to recover, I'm afraid. Magic is a patient process. Besides, the first time we met, I recalled you tried to burn me."_

"Sorry." Harry wrote again, he could clearly hear Narcissa summoning him for dinner, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the diary. "I didn't know. I couldn't, though, burn you. Or damage you in any way. What are you?"

There was a long pause. Harry wasn't sure if Tom was being dramatic or he was construing his words very carefully. Finally, the answer appeared.

" _I am a genie. Of the wish granting kind—"_

" _So tell me, Harry Potter, what would you wish for?"_

* * *

 

_/PAST/_

The first thing Harry learned about Tom was the guy had a weird sense of humour.

The second thing he learned was the spirit can be very persuasive.  _Very persuasive, indeed._

Harry spent the next few months writing and conversing to Tom, daily, constantly. He fashioned a hidden layers from the bottom of his drawer to store the diary, but mostly he preferred to carry the notebook with him, under his robe, that way he can communicate with Tom any time he found himself alone. The diary's rough leather cover turned warm against his bare skin and Harry was occasionally alarmed by the way its magic ticked and latched onto him, snug like a second layer of skin. Yet he couldn't be without the thing.

In retrospect, Harry realized his behaviour was a bit erratic and irrational. Inch by inch, word by word, Tom managed to lure Harry into his fold, trapping him in his web of lies, subduing the boy with his promise of friendship, until the last tread has been spun and Tom was ready, as a patient hunter emerging from the darkness, to attack.

But Harry was desperate for a friend. Someone,  _anyone_ , to share the truth with.

Because it was so hard pretending to forget yourself— to forget the only family you've ever known, to forget the brutal murder of your parents, and to forget the fact that their killer walks free, revered and celebrated, a god among men.

_To forget, except, when you remembered._

He certainly couldn't talk to Draco or Narcissa Malfoy. He liked his adopted brother and mother fine, but he couldn't trust them.

Draco was a timid and simple child. Pale and blue-eyed, with hair the colour of platinum gold, he was the splinting image of his father. Too bad Lucius didn't love the boy. The Malfoy patriarch couldn't bring himself to admit his only son was a squib, the only one to appear in a Malfoy family in ten generations.

When Harry arrived at the Malfoy manor, Lucius was busy conducting little projects— by projects he meant experimenting with obscure cures for the 'squib problem". Potions, rituals, even Muggle contraptions, whatever money can buy. But eventually Lucius gave up, either because he realized it was hopeless or because Narcissa was about to chew his head off.

Nevertheless, Harry liked Draco Malfoy.

The blonde boy was elated to have Harry as his brother, because none of the pure-blood children would play with him and the Malfoys, off course, only socialize with pure-bloods. The boy was energetic and a little timid, which mostly resulting from, in Harry's humble opinion, Narcissa's over-protectiveness, but he kind of liked that about her.

Narcissa Malfoy was a beautiful woman. Tall, with a frail frame and hair like the sun, Narcissa held the Malfoy household together. Although not a Death Eater or a ranker in the government, she was almost as busy as her husband. A natural-born socialite, she organized parties and events, held committees and charities— her duties are to reaffirm pure-bloods of their opulent ideals and distinct class, a quintessential fabric in the Dark Lord's society.

 _Soft power_ , Lucius had called it.

Narcissa was kind to Harry. She spoke in firm, sweet tones and took good care of him. On those nights when he was too afraid to sleep (rampantly often in the early years), Narcissa would sit on the edge of his bed and sing lullabies softly to him in French. When she held Draco in her arms, her crystal blue eyes sparkled in the same way as Harry's mum, although Narcissa carried herself with a refined self-assuredness that his mum never managed.

Despite her kindness, Harry couldn't bring himself to confide in her. He knew, with a perceptive certainty, if Narcissa ever perceived him to pose a danger to her family, she would threw him to the Department of Peace so fast, that even the most steadfast Auror would be impressed.

So, instead, Harry confided in Tom.

Harry wrote about everything.

He wrote about his previous life. Whatever small details he could remember about his parents— their playful banters, their favourite foods, his father's love for Quidditch and his mother's numerous books. He wrote about uncle Sirius, and uncle Remus, and that traitor Pettigrew.

He wrote about the Malfoys and his observation of them. Sometimes mundane things like what colour dresses Narcissa wore or how Draco likes to sneak into his bedroom late at night to prank him. He also shared his speculations about why the Malfoys took him in— Are they after the Potter family properties? (But the Malfoys are rich enough as it is and Harry had no ownership anyways being underage.) Or are they trying to gain political influence by taking in a child from a prominent Light family?

Tom had answered that, in his opinion, they want Harry to act as legal guardian of the Malfoy estate, until Draco manages to have magical offspring. Tom then explained, in boring detail, all about the law of inheritance in pure-bloods houses (which frankly Harry didn't understand). Tom's theory made the most sense, Harry supposed, but he couldn't help feel a little resentment to being used as legal fodder.

Also, Tom was very helpful when it comes to disentangle pure-blood etiquette, which Harry grudgingly had to learn. (Because, really, who actually wants to know about the intricacy of a three-piece robe or the proper way to slice and distribute dragon balls at parties.)

Sometimes, Harry pestered Tom about magical knowledge, mostly about dark curses he found in the secret library. (Which, to his disappointment, Tom refused to tell him, explaining they were too dangerous for a kid. And Harry was  _not_  a kid, mind you.) Tom was brilliant and exceptionally patient with him. The diary had an encyclopaedic knowledge about everything. Often, Tom would plump his explanations with colourful commentaries that never failed to make Harry laugh.

Overall, Tom was a very good pen pal. He was charming and witty, perceptive yet considerate. Tom mostly listened (figurative speaking, off course) to Harry's rumbles, offering words of comforts and encouragement when needed, sharing his counsel when prompted, and posing fun distractions whenever the past threatened to swallow Harry whole.

Other times, Tom had questions of his own.

He was immensely curious about the outsid world, in particular about the workings of Dark Lord's government. He had Harry copied whole chapters from  _The Rise of New Britain: a guide to modern history_  and  _Important Figures in Modern Magic_ (both written by Watson Muller), until Harry was so sick of writing that he finally resorted to pretend losing both books.

Tom also asked him to relay the news. The spirit was fascinated by everything, from politics to disasters to nuptials to Quidditch World Cup. Harry also described to Tom many funny gadgets in the Malfoy Manor; Harry had such a grand time trying to figure out their functions, he even enlisted Draco's help along the way.

And occasionally, very occasionally, they talked about Tom.

For someone with such refined verbal abilities, Tom was rather inapt with a simple self-introduction. He told Harry many unimportant anecdotes, like his favourite dishes or names of authors he admired, but Tom always changed the subject whenever something personal came up. Sometimes, to placate the boy, Tom would spin a brilliant tale about Hogwarts or HungarianDragonValley or Irish Sea Mermen, tales full of adventures and twists, to dazzle Harry until his head spun and he forgot his original inquiries all together.

Harry supposed he could have pressed harder on the subject.  _He should have._

In the end, though, Harry didn't dare to. Maybe... because he didn't want Tom to be mad at him, the other had an inexorable ability to draw Harry into his fold. Or maybe, unconsciously, Harry didn't really wish to know; he didn't like thinking about his friend as a separate entity, because if Tom was — and still is — a real person, then why was he trapped in a diary and what did that mean for Harry?

At last, Harry told Tom about his sixth birthday, about his parents' murder. But he couldn't bring himself to actually describe the event. Instead, Tom showed him how to separate his memory and share it with the book.

That, for good or ill, was how Harry found his sole purpose in life.

Tom stayed silent for a long time after Harry let the silver thread of memory flow into the dairy. Harry didn't have a clue to how long Tom needed to process everything. So he sat, patiently waiting, until—

" _You are younger than I expected."_

Harry frowned. His pen halted on the paper. That wasn't the reaction he was hoping for, although he wasn't even sure what he was hoping for.

So instead he wrote down a question mark.

" _My apologies. My friend, I simply don't know what to say... I wish I had a real body so I could hold you in my arms and comfort you somehow, because words fail me now. How… How are you feeling?"_

Harry tightened his grip on his pen. He realized this was the first time he ever talked to anyone about that day. Nausea settled over him and Harry began writing in earnest, first tentatively, but soon the words came pouring out of him.

"I… I don't know. I feel different depends on the day. Some days, I feel better, just a tingle of sadness and fear. Some days, I'm numb to it. And some days, I— I can't sleep at all, Tom. I think about them all the time. I see them in my dreams, smiling and laughing, then, screaming and running. They scream so loud… Green lights are everywhere and so bright that I couldn't open my eyes. When I could— open my eyes— if I'm brave enough, I see him."

"Just him, staring back at me with those ugly eyes. Red and thin like a snake. Oh, and…his horrible laugh. Cutting like spears. So I ran— because I'm a coward—"

As Harry wrote, tears came pouring down his face, wetting the paper and causing the ink to dissolve. Harry dabbed at it with his sleeve, wanting to apologize to Tom, then feeling silly for thinking about it.

"You asked me what I would wish for…Tom." Harry wrote with some difficulties, blotting the paper with ink from his shaking hands. "I... I can tell you."

"I want my parents and my life back. But you can't give me that— can you, Tom?"

Tom paused. His words surfaced on the wet paper slowly.

" _No, I can't. I'm sorry, my friend."_

Harry laughed bitterly.  _Off course, even magic has its limits._

He wrote again.

"I knew that. I always knew that. This is my life now and I should just accept it. Shouldn't I, Tom? …But I just can't. I— I feel so lost. I look around this expensive Manor, with its unfamiliar people and nothing… Nothing feels  _right_. Do you understand me? Please, oh, please say you do. And can you tell me something?... Would… would I ever be happy again?"

Harry clutched the notebook tightly. He almost slammed the thing shut just to stop the emotions from flowing out of him. But instead he took up the pen again.

"Help me, Tom.  _Please_."

The diary quivered a little bit like a satisfied animal. Gradually, Harry felt calmer as the thing seemed to soak up his emotions like it did his tears.

Tom's confident hand-writing returned.

" _Thank you for sharing this with me, Harry. I think you're too hard on yourself, child. You are an exceptionally brave boy; from what I can see, you have handled everything as well as anyone could. Please, do not fret, all is not hopeless — it never is — because I can help you. And I want to. But before I can give you my advice, let me offer you a gift in return for your confidence. I will show you my past. A secret for a secret. Since, normally, you are so interested in my stories, I trust you'll find this one — ah— most enlightening."_

The diary blew open like a tornado swept through it. It landed on a page in April, then, a gleaming light filled the page. Harry leaned into the light. Before he knew what was happening, the light filled the room and Harry felt his body tilting forward, being pulled through the pages, into a swirl of color and shadow.

Harry landed in a mist of smokes, before his feet hit solid ground and a stone chamber materialized around him.

He was standing at the end of a long, dimly lit chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with serpents, rose to a ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place.*

The damp coldness fogged Harry's glasses. Combined with the dim lights, he could barely see five feet in front of him. He backed away in confusion, stepping into a puddle of water yet his feet remained dry. His back bumped into something hard. Harry looked up.

A statue high as the chamber itself loomed over him. At first its features were blurred like old photographs, but as soon as Harry's eyes focused, its structure sharpened and its white marbled surface gleamed greenish grey. It had a giant face, ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes, where two enormous gray feet stood on the smooth chamber floor.*

Harry heard a noise of splashing water and his attention instantly snapped back to the chamber corridor.

A boy in dark grey robe strode toward him. His swagger held all the casualty of a walk in the park on a nice sunny day, as if the dark chamber was as pleasant as any floral meadow.

As he came closer, Harry could see he was about sixteen, much taller than Harry, but with dark hair the same shade of mid-night black. The boy was very handsome with pale skin and chiselled features, although Harry was more interested in the oddly coloured goggle perched on his nose.

A strange sense of familiarity struck Harry. But he was sure he had never met the other boy before.

The boy stopped in front of the statue, directly facing Harry, and withdrew his wands, pointing it toward the ceiling. An odd little smile danced on his red lips. Hogwarts symbol was embroiled in gold threads on his right breast pocket and next to it, a Prefect badge glinted silver.

"Tom?" yelled Harry, with some certainty, although not sure how he knew.

At the long-awaited sight of his friend, Harry chest danced with joy and curiosity. He rushed forward with his arms held open.

"My goodness, is that really you, Tom?" Harry flashed a toothy grin. "WOW! You are also younger than I expected—"

Tom did not look at him.

Instead, he looked up at the face of the stone statue. His smile grew wider, more twisted. Tom flicked his wand and the torches on the pillars lit up, one by one, until the entire chamber was enveloped in a flaming light.

The lights almost blinded Harry. As he bent over covering his eyes, Harry heard the most terrible hissing fell from Tom's lips. It sounded like whispers of the wind or rustling of sand paper, but Harry instantly recognized the sound.

"No," a broken whisper escaped him.

A horrible sensation tied Harry's stomach to knots. With shaky hands, he reached out to grab the other's sleeve, only to find the grey fabric dissolving into a swirl of smoke. Harry stared, as soon as his hands moved away, the smoke condensed back to solid shape, dark flowing fabric that look perfectly real.

High above him, bathed in orange from newly-lit flames, the statue's face moved. Horror-struck, Harry saw its mouth opening, wider and wider, to make a huge black hole.*

And something was stirring inside the statue's mouth. Something was slithering up from its depths.*

A huge, long creature flicked out from the opening like a deformed tongue. It was an enormous serpent, bigger than any creature Harry had ever seen, bright, poisonous green, body thick as oak trunk and scales sharp like tiny spikes. It hit the ground with a loud thud and slithered toward them.

Tom laughed, a joyous roar that echoed in the empty chamber. Tom's hiss grew louder and the serpent swayed its head in response.

"NO!" cried Harry. He backed away as the creature's great, bulbous yellow eyes turned on him.

He began running down the empty chamber, as the creature chased after him. It instantly caught him.

The snake bowled him over.  _Well, not exactly._  It ran straight through him, its sabre-like fans dissolved into smoke upon contact. The serpent did not notice Harry as it moved with impossible speed and disappeared into a tunnel at the end of the chamber.

Harry breathed fast, his chest heaved as through he just ran a marathon. Behind him, Tom's maniacal laughter seemed to follow him until the chamber began to spin.

Harry spun around, just in time to see Tom taking off his goggles. The fog seemed to play tricks on Harry's mind, because he saw, on the face of the boy he calls friend, a pair of blood-red eyes, alight with devious ecstasy.

The whole room faded to smoke.

The last thing Harry remembered was the red-eyes and a whisper as quiet as the wind.

" _Don't be afraid, Harry. She won't hurt you. I won't hurt you."_

Harry landed back in the secret library, awkwardly, on all-fours. The notebook had fallen from his lap and lay peacefully beside his glasses. Harry scuttled away from it.

Harry was sudden overcome with a desire to burn the diary and to have Dobby carry its ashes to the edge of world to dump into the ocean. But Harry picked up his pen and opened the book again.

Tom had already written something on the first page.

" _I hope I didn't frighten you—too badly, at least."_

"What—" Harry began to write, but his hands shook too much to function.

" _I had to show you something grand, dramatic, so you will believe me when I make my promise."_

"What—" Harry tried again, then it clicked. "A memory?"

" _Yes, quite astute of you,"_  replied Tom quickly. " _One of my fondest, actually. First time I met Babe, a magnificent creature, isn't she? It was love at first sight, if I do say so myself—"_

"Babe?" answered Harry hesitantly. His mouth hung open in sheer disbelief. The terror he felt seemed stupid now, surely he knew Tom, as well as Tom knew him…  _Right_?

" _Yes, apparently she was named after Babylon, her birth-place. But in Parseltongue, 'L' sounds don't translate very well. And, well— I think it suits her well enough, don't you, Harry?"_

Harry decided not to answer.

"Parseltongue… you…?"

" _Well, yes, that is why I wanted to talk to you. Harry, although I cannot give you your parents back, I can give you something to thrive for. "_

Tom's writing turned frantic, as if the other wasn't sure of his words but was eager to tell it anyways.

" _I think we are similar in many ways. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to you. You see, I am also an orphan. Someone who is denied his rightful heritage, by injustice and by cruel fate. We even look somewhat alike. Don't we? Like you, I had to grow up relying only on myself, because I couldn't trust anyone either... Not after the betrayal that had killed my mother—NO— I swore such thing will never, ever happen to me. The road for a young, powerful wizard is dangerous and harsh. I don't want you to go through it alone, Harry, like I did—"_

" _I, too, once, was confused as you are. I had no direction in life. As I grew older, I accumulated knowledge, influence, and wealth beyond your wildest dream, but nothing could satisfy me. I couldn't help but think about the man who betrayed my mother. And how that betrayal killed her as surely as if he had drawn the knife himself. So, one day, I killed him— and it was glorious. I cannot describe the catharsis I felt that moment. I was happy, Harry, happier than ever before. It was as if justice sprung from his blood and cleansed me, released me to live my life... My own way... Harry, my friend, I want you to experience the same."_

Harry gasped.

" _Don't tell me you never thought about it?"_

"I—" Harry's eyes widened as his hands seemed to move on their own. "I do. All the time. But…But it can't be done, he is the king of Britain and I'm just a boy—"

" _Ah, maybe now you're just a boy. But you have power, Harry, trust in that. Even Voldemort recognized it. And you have opportunities which he knows not—namely me. "_

" _There lies another similarity between us. Voldemort is our greatest enemy. Yours and my. You see, Harry, the man you know as Dark Lord Voldemort, the King of Magic, the Heir of the great Slytherin house, is not who he says he is. He is a liar. And a coward. And a fraud. Do you know what the statue in the chamber you saw is? It is the statue of Salazar Slytherin, the greatest of the Hogwarts four. The basilisk was his pet, a one-thousand-years old relic, and only the true heir of Slytherin can call upon her."_

" _Don't you know what this means, Harry?... Don't you see?... I am the true heir of Slytherin. Not Voldemort, no, no, NO. His real name is Marvolo Gaunt, he was my… cousin, a inbred psychopath. But I had trusted him... I had helped him, because he was a parselmouth, a blood-relation... And how did he REPAY me?! By locking me up in this blasted book, with nothing but darkness for company—fifty years! FIFTY! Do you have any idea how it boils my blood to hear… to hear he dares to claim MY throne! How he dares to sully the Slytherin name! I hate betrayals more than anything, and— I'm afraid— the only thing that'll cure this burning hatred is sweet vengeance."_

" _So, here, I propose to you a partnership, my friend. I want you by my side and, together, we will take down Voldemort and his government. You will get the justice you deserve, as will I—"_

"But your eyes—" interrupted Harry quickly, "they are the same as his."

" _No, they're not. My eyes are red due to a curse placed upon me by Voldemort…and I got him back for it, see… And Harry, really, you've seen his ugly, inhuman mug, please don't tell me you see any resemblance between us."_

Harry stroked the paper in thought. He couldn't quite comprehend his luck. Tom's every word struck his heart—everything he wanted to hear, almost too good to be true. He wondered if Tom could feel the emotions tumbling through his vein. He bet Tom could, as the diary's magic almost purred in response.

" _I could understand your hesitance. It is a lot to take in. But I'm patient, I'll wait for you."_

"How do I know I can trust you?" responded Harry finally.

" _I swear to you, Harry Potter, on my mother's honour and on my father's grave, that I will always tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I swear to you that I want Voldemort dead and I will do everything in my power to help you achieve your goal."_

"…You think I can do it?"

" _Yes, I can make you into the greatest wizard ever lived. I just… I just need you to trust me. My friend—Harry—can you do that?"_

An incredulous laughter escaped Harry's lips.  _Off course not,_ his conscious huffed.

"Yes." He wrote without hesitation.

Harry clutched the diary close to his heart. Mad laughter fell from his lips. Tears stained his green eyes as Harry doubled over, still hugging the diary tight, as if his very life depend upon it.

The hidden door amongst the shelves slide open and a little blonde boy peaked in.

"What is so funny? Harry," inquired Draco Malfoy loudly. "And what is that bright light?"

He skipped toward Harry's frozen form, and poked the leather-bound notebook curiously.

"What is  _that_?"

* * *

 

**Author's rambling:**

* Lifted verbatim from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. 'Cause I'm lazy.

Thanks you for reading! (Presumably you've read the chapter if you are looking here, right?)

I will have a lot of time-skips back and forth, like in a tennis match. Basically the narrative will jump between the past and the present (which is Harry's seventh-year), because it's fun this way. I will tried to make it as clear as possible whenever I switch timelines, but let me know if it gets confusing or something.

 


	5. Little Ward Master

**Chapter 5**

" _Accio armchair_!"

Harry quickly summoned a chair to block Tom's cutting curse, correctly grasping that this particular curse was designed to break through the  _Protego_. The chair splintered in magnificent fashion, sending large chucks of woods flying in all directions. Harry took no time to breathe. With a wave of his wand, he transfigured all the wooden chucks into huge vultures and sent them flying toward Tom. Fast and over-whelming like a destructive storm, swarms of dark feathers and sharp talons covered Tom instantly, blocking him from Harry's view.

Harry nodded in satisfaction. Normal shield charms weren't designed to protect against the attacks of living creatures, after all, how many wizards you expect to ever engage in a physical fight?  _That's right, a big fat zero._   _Oh, it's not proper_ , Harry could almost hear them say,  _and don't forget to bow before your duels, young man_.

 _Stupid… let someone else care about their manners,_  thought Harry,  _I rather stay alive._

Harry took a second to admire his handy-work. It was a rather impressive spell— to be able to transfigure multiple objects simultaneously, while maintaining sufficient detail within each piece to fool Tom's magic.  _Professor McGonagall would be so proud._

" _Aduroscentia_!"

A ring of black flames sprung around Tom, a wall of dancing darkness extending to the ceiling, and rapidly burnt all of the vultures to crisp. Centered in the ring of fire, Tom's amused red-eyes found Harry. The cuts on his faces bled slightly and his blond-hair was comically scruffy, but Tom didn't seem too bothered by it. He raised an eye-brow (as if saying  _oh, is that it?_ ) and sent another cutting curse hurling toward Harry.

Harry ducked this one by diving to the opposite end of the room.  _Argh_ , he knew he shouldn't be distracted by the thoughts of Professor McGonagall during a duel with Tom.

Spells flew rapidly between them, a fluent dance of lights and colours, that smashed everything in their path into pieces.

The Room of Requirement always ended up a mess when they are done with their practises— floor full of broken glass, burning and crumbling walls, and furniture sliced in half or tossed on top of each other. Harry appreciated the Room being able to heal itself, or some House Elves might get suspicious and report them to the Headmaster, many times over by now.

Tom started training Harry in defensive magic in their second year. Spells, charms and curses, dark or light, Tom had no restraints in his teachings.  _Use whatever works,_  he told Harry,  _unforgivables, basic charms, cheats and lies, it doesn't matter._   _Remember,_  Tom laughed when he proclaimed grandly,  _adoration and glory always belong to the winner, while only death greets the loser._

Then Tom would force Harry into  _applying_  his skills as soon as possible. Harry remembered those early duels— when he couldn't last for more than a minute before Tom knocked him out with some particularly nasty hex. So, Harry ended up learning lots of healing charms.  _Lots_. And, as it turns out, pain was a particularly effective motivator; quickly, Harry grew into a dueller worthy of his ambitions.

Tom insisted on practising combat in environments that stimulate real situations, so Harry can learn to utilize his surroundings efficiently. Currently, the Room of Requirement produced for them the living room of an old manor (which looked suspiciously like the Malfoy Manor), with beautiful antique furniture and a large soaring fireplace. Too bad, right now, it looked like mountain trolls just threw a party in here.

Harry hissed in pain as one of Tom's curses smacked into his rib, almost knocking him off his feet. An ugly burn the size of a Bludger surfaced on his skin, but Harry didn't have time to dwell, as he whirled aside to dodge another curse.

Tom hadn't moved from his corner. He had, theoretically, taken the most advantageous position in the whole room, where he can attack easily while maintain good visualization on Harry.

As Tom continued his spells, he called out.

"Stop running away. Haven't I taught you the best defence is a good offense, dear apprentice? Don't disappoint me now."

Harry didn't respond. Instead, he danced around Tom's spells carefully as he went around the room. It seemed Tom was only using dark curses today, nothing too surprising. When most of the furniture in the room had been levelled by their fight, Harry thought he's ready.

" _Ventismoi_!" shouted Harry, then he suddenly dashed toward the opposite end of the room. He pointed his wand toward Tom.

Brute winds gushed from his wand tip like water rising from a spring. They stirred the room and blew up the dust, wood splinters, and black feathers left behind by Harry's vultures. The debris surrounded Tom, trapping him in a column of opaque twister.

" _Stupify_!" yelled Harry. A red light flew toward Tom's corner. A dull sound told Harry his curse was deflected by Tom's shield.

Tom laughed. He remained completely protected against the winds from behind his shield charm.

"Trying to obstruct my vision? Good start, I suppose, but don't forget— if I can't see you, then you can't see me either."

Harry sent a couple more hexes in rapid succession. He put as much power as he can into those spells, until he felt a faint crack appeared in Tom's shield.

"NOW!" shouted Harry toward the ceiling.

A scurry of dark feathers emerged from the chandelier. The lone vulture flapped its enormously wings and glided toward Tom, in its talons, dangled a chain attached to a metallic, golden pendant, a medallion small enough to fit in Harry's palm. The metal glinted like a shooting star.

Harry guided the bird with his magic until it dived into the eye of the twister. Descending with the speed of bullets, the vulture slammed pass Tom's shield and dropped the medallion at his feet.

Harry activated his ward. The golden medallion glowed as bright lights burst from it, penetrating the dust-storm like sunlight descending from heaven. The lights consumed Tom, and Harry felt his magic fill the room. As the lights grew, the ward shattered Tom's shield and momentarily immobilized the blonde boy.

Harry raised his wand. His green eyes met surprised red ones.

" _Expelliarmus_." said Harry simply. Then he grabbed Tom's wand as it flew toward him.

Debris fell clumsily on the floor; black feathers dissolved along with the last vulture, vanishing into thin air as magic receded from the room. The battle had been won.

Tom picked up the medallion, now calm and dull like any piece of jewel. He held it against the light and read the runes engraved on its surface.

"A warden's key?" He walked toward Harry and held out his hand. His robe was rather tattered with scratch marks and jagged rips, although his face was no longer bleeding.

"Yes," replied Harry as he handed Tom's wand back to him. Now the adrenaline left him, Harry realized that his waist region ached with a burning fury. He reached down to touch the burned flesh, but Tom's hands caught his, then Tom shook his head.

"Oh? How interesting. Explain what it does," commanded Tom lazily.

Harry bit his lips in annoyance. Tom never acknowledged his victory, yet the spirit would gloat pettily if he had beaten Harry.  _Never plays fair, that jerk._  The burn itched terribly and now green pus oozed from his wound.

"It's a warden's key, duh, so it holds wards. Made it myself, out of Valyrian gold and anchored with my own magic. It's still an experiment, more or less. Luckily it didn't explode on you, right, Tommy?"

Harry tried and failed to free his hands. The itch got worst, almost unbearable, and Harry had to force out his words.

"I designed the ward to expel its power outward, releasing the stored magic like a tiny bomb, as oppose to your  _boring_  average wards, which hold magic steady like a solid dome. I want a different ward: one that, instead of holding objects in, can break through things — for example, your shield charm. To be more specific, I am trying to create a ward that, rather than holding people, can hold spells... Any spell ideally, but… but I'm only starting to have limited success with a few charms, and overall… well, let's just say things are not going so well— because wards are very specific and spells are very specific… and so… they just don't mix."

"Very specific? For example, it'll need feathers?" Tom raised an eye-brow.

Harry shrugged. "All wards are very specific. Even magic has its limits–" He grinned smugly at Tom. "Congratulations, you are my first human trial, and I think it went rather well. What do you think, dear brother?"

Tom frowned. He apparently didn't like the way Harry copied his arrogant drawl. He crushed Harry's fingers in his palm and pulled the boy closer to his body.

Tom asked, "I see, is that why you need all those feathers?"

"I realized you tagged those birds with your magic, with excessive amount, might I add. So you planned to stabilize your ward with magic residue on the feathers, and … oh, I see. The key stores magic. Instead of storing stable magic, you tried to store spells— a  _Petrificus Totalus_  in this one, right?— However, this makes the ward unstable and you need to use your own magic to suppress it. Hence the trouble with the birds—"

Tom tilted his head to look at Harry. The warm feeling of the other's hands jolted Harry and Harry turned his attention to Tom. With some curiosity, he noticed Tom's eyes were shifting colour rapidly.  _Red_ , then blue, then red again.

"I don't see the point though," continued Tom. "Too much energy is wasted this way. There are many other ways to break shield charms… much easier ways. Pay a little attention to my lessons next time. You may still learn something."

"I said it's only in experimental stage," hissed Harry. "Let go of my hands. I need to reverse whatever is it you've cursed me with, because it  _fucking_  hurts."

To Harry's surprise, Tom yielded and released him. The Head Boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tube. He gestured to the burn on Harry's side.

"Strip," commanded Tom. "Medicine."

Harry felt incredibly awkward standing in front of Tom, shirtless, as the other boy slowly applied the ointment on his wound. Tom was surprisingly gentle. He patiently dabbed the cream onto Harry's rib with his long fingers. The ointment felt cool where it contacts his skin and the itch subsided instantly.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Tom was standing way too close, with one hand holding his waist and the other working on the wound. Tom's eyes were down-cast and Harry felt rather exposed as the spirit scrutinized his lightly tanned skin with unreadable intensity. Harry looked away in embarrassment. His eyes found the chandelier—

"Wait a minutes," blurted out Harry suddenly. "When did you realize I tagged those vultures with my magic? Does that mean—"

"Yes, that means I've noticed the one hiding in the chandelier as well," replied Tom without looking up. "I was just curious to your plan, so I played along. And, yes, that means I  _let_  you win."

"No, you didn't." Harry frowned, "You were very surprised by my ward. I saw it. I know I did, since I was watching you very closely—"

Tom shot him a smug look, a faint amusement danced in his reddish blue-eyes.

"I'll admit I was a little surprised. After all, I'm no expert in warding. That's your specialty, my little Ward Master. But that doesn't mean I didn't let you win— I did— did you know you were so intent on your plan, that you dropped your shield charms a couple of times? I could've taken you out, any time I wanted."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but decided it sounded too childish.

Instead, he said, "We'll just have to agree to disagree, then. Also, may I point out I'm not a Ward Master… yet. Still a Journey Man, I'm afraid. Now if only you'll let me take the exams—"

"Let's not have this argument again," Tom waved his hand, his fingers stained green with medical cream. "I told you our objectives require a certain amount of  _discretion_. If a child passes the Ministry's exams and becomes a Ward Master at seventeen, surely there'll be some news and all sorts of attention will fall onto said child… And we don't want that, do we?"

"I'm not a child—"replied Harry and immediately regretted his choice of words.

He pursed his lips.

_If Tom wanted discretion, then why did he acting so strange with Ginevra Weasley earlier in the evening?_

Tom pulled out his wand and murmured a spell. The green ointment melted on command, a light scent of freshly cut grass filled the air as Harry's wound disappeared. Not a trace of the burn left behind, only bare skin as smooth as new.

"Argh—" yelped Harry when Tom poked him in the rib.

"You're entirely too skinny," said Tom. "Take care of yourself, child. Can't have my little assassin-to-be fainting due to malnutrition, can I? Speaking of which, I have a gift for you, Harry. I dare to say you'll  _love_  it."

Harry glared at Tom suspiciously as the blonde boy pulled a file from his robe.

"I have an assignment for you. This time— an order for someone you're quite familiar with, I believe," said Tom as he handed the blue file to Harry.

Harry took the thing cautiously. He knew what this meant—blue is for the marked, Death Eaters who they are trying to assassinate. Starting this year, Tom had begun to trust him on solo missions, and so far Harry had some limited success, although Harry never really got used to that awful feeling of blood on his hands, sticky and raw.

A photo and three pages of information were in the folder. The report listed crucial details— the location and time of operation, the schedule and habits of the target and ancillary concerns (such as name and presence of family members). Harry stared at the photo—it showed a plump man with small, blinking, watery eyes and a pointed nose. He was nervously pushing his thin, mousy brown hair back, trying to hide (with no success) his bold spot.

_Peter Pettigrew._

"I…Thank you," said Harry simply as he looked at Tom. "I'll get it done."

Tom shrugged, "My pleasure. Here's the plan. You'll need to operate over Halloween weekends. During the Hogsmeade trip. On Sunday. Go stake out Pettigrew's cabin around eleven—by which he should be home alone— and get it done. Be back in Hogwarts by one at the latest, I'll cover for you until then."

Harry clutched the files tight. A devious smile found its way onto his lips.  _Oh, how long have he waited for this._

Tom peered at him with intense scrutiny.

"Harry, listen. It's a simple extermination mission. In and out. No lingering, no talking and especially, and I mean especially, no emotional tantrum. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded. Tom scrutinized him for a little longer before pulling out the medallion and draping it over Harry's neck. The golden pendent sat peacefully against Harry's chest, and Harry felt his own magic swirling inside the circle, thumping and warm, in sync with his own heartbeat.

"Keep this, it looks good on you." Tom smirked and brought his right hand up to touch the medallion.

His other hand stayed on Harry's waist. By the soft touches of his brother's fingers, Harry was reminded of his nakedness and a tint of rose coloured his cheeks.

The ward's magic beat faster now. It reacted to Tom's magic instinctively, as Harry's own magic surely would've done. Tom moved closer to inspect the object.  _Too close._  Harry could feel Tom's hot breath tickling his neck. His own magic flared.

"Wait—" interrupted Harry, mostly in want to disrupt this  _tension_  (or whatever it was) between them. "What…What happen to your magic? It's almost completely gone—"

"Oh?" asked Tom as he turned to face Harry. Now Harry could see Tom's eyes were completely blue, unreadable like the depthless sea.

"Yes," nodded Harry, more assertive. He was sure of it now. After all, reading magic level was as natural to him as breathing, being a Ward Conjurer and all. "Your magic level is dangerously low, Tom. How can it be? Only this morning, we just —"

"Kissed?" supplied Tom helpfully, which Harry ignored.

"— exchanged magic. You should be fine for the whole week. What… what have you been doing, Tom?"

Harry immediately recognized a mask slipping onto Tom's face. The other's blue-eyes regarded him coolly, immovable and icy like his occlumency shield.

" _Damn it_ , Tom. Just tell me the truth for once!" snapped Harry bitterly. The familiar sense of frustration resurfaced within. "We are on the same team, aren't we?"

 **"** _ **Tom**_ **…** _ **I can… I can help you... I want to—**_ "

With the sudden switch to parseltongue, Tom tensed and tightened his grasp on Harry's waist. His nails dug into Harry's flesh momentarily, before Tom released him suddenly and backed away.

" _ **This doesn't concern you, brother dear ,"**_  drawled Tom as he stared into Harry's eyes. Something flicked in those sea-like blue, but nothing Harry recognized.

_**"All you need to know is... is that I would never hurt you—"** _

"OH PLEASE!" yelled Harry, frustration bubbling to the surface like a bursting dam. " _ **Bullshit**_. You been telling me that since —WHAT — since I was nine. TOM! Don't you dare—"

Harry wasn't sure why he done it.

Maybe he done it to stop Tom from moving away; maybe he done it to wipe that cold blankness from Tom's face; or maybe, just maybe, Harry felt a twinge of concern for the spirit as he had never seen Tom's magic level so low. Normally the other's power flared endlessly like molten lava, never was it as faint as now, as if Tom wasn't real, merely an impression fainting from this world.

Harry grabbed Tom's tie and yanked him forward suddenly, crushing their lips together in a clumsy aggression. Harry felt Tom's body stiffen, but the blonde boy didn't resist. Their lips pressed hot against each other. Harry tasted blood, whether his own or Tom's, he couldn't tell.

Harry focused his magic, then dumped them— all at once— flooding through his lips into Tom's body. He imagined such a sudden influx of power would be very uncomfortable, but Harry was too angry to do this gently. He was rather surprised when Tom suddenly responded. Harry felt a burning pressure on his lips as Tom leaned into their contact, the other's hands around his waist, holding him tight.

After breaking apart, they stared at each other for a moment. Harry panted heavily, and his own magic level was dangerously low. He shivered involuntarily as a cool drift blew pass him. The medallion vibrated excitedly in his chest.

Harry was satisfied to see the other boy's mask dissolved wholly. Tom's eyes widened with surprise, bright and scarlet as they focused on Harry. Tom opened his mouth.

" _Not a word out of you_ —" growled Harry.

He licked the blood from his lips. "And give me back my shirt. It's cold in here."

* * *

 

**Author's rambling:**

So we are back to present again… I hope this format is okay.

I also need to give credit where credit is due: Valyrian is lifted from Game of Thrones. The Ministry of Peace and Ministry of Plenty is lifted from 1984 (and if you read that book, you know what they are :)

* * *

 

**CUT SCENE #2 – "available exclusive in DVD and Blue Ray":**

Tom: "By the way, where did you get those Valyrian gold? Aren't they worth their weight in diamonds or something?"

Harry: "Yep. Extremely expensive on the open market. Which is precisely why I didn't go to the open market—"

Tom: "?"

Harry (grins sheepishly): "I kinda melted some of Narcissa's jewelleries… I mean she has so many... Is not like she'll miss them, will she?"

Tom: "… Were those from a box with three ravens engraved on it?"

Harry (nods): "Yes! That huge red one, made from walnut wood, I think…"

Tom (twitches): "I see… she's going to kill you. Those were a part her dowry—the ravens are the sigil of the Black house— very precious things, I imagine... Maybe even heirlooms."

Harry (frowns): "OH! That makes sense. There were some protection charms on them…but I broke through easily enough."

Tom: "…"

Harry (sweetly): "Hey, Tommy. You know I think you're brilliant and awesome, the greatest wizard since Merlin, right?"

Tom: "… What do you want?"

Harry: "Oh, not much. Just a little favour for your poor brother. Do you mind telling Narcissa you took her jewelleries?"

Tom: "No."

Harry: "But… but… please? She'll never get mad at her Draky-poo—"

Tom: "NO… and DON'T CALL ME THAT!"

Harry: "But… but… I just helped you."

Tom (raises eye-brow): "By forcefully kissing me?"

Harry (splutters): "Er… by giving you my magic. Admit it, you need my help sometimes."

Tom (raises eye-brow again): "I need you to force me into a kiss?"

Harry: "NO! For Salazar's sake, could you stop repeating  _that_!"

Tom (smirks): "What? The kiss? "

Harry: "IT WASN'T A KISS!"

Tom: "Hey, don't get crossed at me. You  _kissed_  me."

Harry: "AHHHHHHHH! It wasn't a kiss! It was a transaction, no more no less."

Tom: "Oh really? Denial isn't just a river in Egypt, then"

Harry: "Look… are you going to help me or not?"

Tom: "Let me think about it…Maybe I could…But only if you admit you love me."

Harry: "WHAT! I DO NOT!"

Tom (feigns confusion): "Then why did you kiss me?"

Harry: "I DID NOT KISS YOU!"

Tom (mockingly): "Oh? So I'm not special? You just go around kissing random people? How terrible, now my feelings are hurt. Excuse me—" (Tom walks away) "Have fun with Narcissa, dear."

Harry: "##$%%#$^"

 


	6. WWW

**Chapter 6**

Harry walked briskly through Hogsmeade, navigating between the seas of students with relative ease. He pulled his cloak tighter and made sure his face was well hidden under it.

Around him, dotting every shop window and on every door, Halloween decorations were out in full force. Small pumpkins hung from the roofs and jingled like bells every times someone walked by. Animated skeletons howled at them in broken sentences, pleading passers-by to check out their shops or to try out a new brand of beer.

Even the Ministry caught the holiday spirit. The surveillance drones they employed, a collection of uniform, fist-sized robins, were also decked out in Halloween colours. With their newly spelled orange feathers, amongst the grey buildings, they were much more conspicuous than usual. Harry sighed. He never noticed how many there were. Now he counted one per every few meters, perched silently on windowsills, rotating their heads left and right in robotically unity.

Nobody knew where these birds came from or how they worked exactly. All they knew was these things are the Ministry's spies, tiny recording devices designed to penetrate public spaces and private homes, to catch incriminatory conversations and bring the recorded messages back to the Ministry. In the beginning, lots of people were apprehended this way, and, rightly or wrongly, executed for treason. The public caught on quickly though. Now no one dared to speak their honest opinions anymore, whether in public or in their own homes.  _Because, in Voldemort's New Britain, nowhere is safe and anyone can be a spy— that's the way it always is— Harry had never knew anything else._

Harry turned a corner onto a much emptier street. The buildings on either side of the narrow cobble road appeared like identical grey boxes. They were all new houses, crammed next to each other in concrete blocks; some of the windows were boarded up and others were covered by newspaper. The festivity died down as the number of shops dwindled, although the number of drone-robins increased greatly.

Harry let out a sign of relief. There were few Hogwarts students here, so he didn't expect to run into anyone he knows. Hogsend Alley was the neighbourhood for plebeians, hooligans and muggle-borns—not a place any self-respecting Slytherin will wander to. Harry quickened his steps. He wanted to finish this errand fast. He was on a tight schedule. After all, he always allowed himself proper time to scout locations before each mission.

The chilling October wind stirred up dust in the empty street and lifted some litters into the air. Few Ministry-issued wanted posters flew toward Harry and he caught them. These were all familiar faces— an old man with a single crazy eye, another with lion-like beard and a women with spiky purple hair— the Undesirables, the enemy of magic, blood-traitors, saboteurs and minions of Undesirable #1— Professor Albus Dumbledore, leader of the light and the ex-headmaster of Hogwarts.

Harry privately thought very little of Mr. Dumbledore, even though he never met the man. He never liked the Professor, not since he had found out, near the end of war, Dumbledore abandoned a lot of light families, including his own, and escaped to France with a small band of supporters. Besides, the old man wasn't much to look at, a benign-looking old man with a crooked nose and long silver beard. Hard to believe this man was the world's best bet against Voldemort.

_Hey, say what you want about Voldemort, but at least the guy looked like a Dark Lord (albeit a very ugly one, but…still…he's terrifying)._

Currently, Professor Dumbledore spent a lot of time on the lecture circuit, touring around Europe to speak out against Voldemort's reign and to enlist supports from different governments for his rebel cause. Also, occasionally, the Order of Phoenix will pop up here and there, in some terrorist attack or gruesome murder. In general, this would be followed by a flurry of activity within the Ministry, including many over-time effort by the folks at Department of Truth (to churn out propaganda materials) and by Aurors at Department of Peace (to conduct raids).

Harry supposed he should be grateful to Dumbledore and his Order. After all, they took up the bulk of the Ministry's attention, so Tom and he can conduct their operations in peace…er, metaphorically speaking.

In fact, Tom deliberately took advantage of the situation— often, it was too easy planting clues for the Ministry, pointing them down the wrong road, toward the Order. Harry suspected that Aurors, themselves, were too eager to follow that particular line of thought, because funding come pouring in whenever Dumbledore's name is mentioned. Harry should know, since he often overheard Lucius complaining about it.

So far, though assassinations, Tom and Harry had taken down ten Death Eaters, which, Harry thought, makes them much more effective than the Order. And in the process, they had become quite famous — or rather infamous— in their own right.

After the third murder, the press took notice and made a huge wave about this new serial killer targeting Death Eaters.  _The audacity of this brute,_  wrote one reporter,  _to try to terrorize_   _the whole country by targeting these outstanding civil servants_.  _We will not stand for such meaningless act of violence_ , fumed another,  _our hearts and souls are with the families and the Dark Lord_. And yet, the media kept pushing the story. They wrote about every graphic detail, and denounced every graphic detail, then talked about it some more.

Sometimes, it amused Harry to read all the crazy speculations. Everything linked to the deaths was sensationalized. The reports spread like wild fire, speculations mixed with facts until neither can be distinguished. With reports coming from all directions, the Ministry was overwhelmed with reported sightings of the killer and their force was spread thin by demands of paranoid politicians. After their last kill, the untimely death of Judge Yaxley, facts had become story and story had grown into legend.  _Which_ , Harry believed,  _was exactly what Tom wanted._

The media even anointed the killer with a nickname — Lady Tee— short for Lady Themis, Lady Justice, the Greek goddess of law and divine order. Much to the Ministry's (and Harry's) chagrin, this particular name stuck after it was reported one of the victims was blindfolded by a red silk scarf.

Harry had done so first by accident. He didn't like the way the corpse's eyes followed him while Tom ransacked his house, so he grabbed a scarf on the table and placed it over the man's head. Afterward, a crime scene photo was published in the Daily Prophet— a dead man with a scarlet blindfold against his ghastly pale flesh, the red scarf spilling into a pool of blood, indistinguishable in the black-and-white photo. That was the last photo the Ministry allowed the press to publish about the case and its impact was ever-lasting.

For once, the Department of Truth was slow to respond to public opinion, which was highly unlike them, being the esteemed propaganda experts and all. First, they tried to spin the story as another of the Order's sabotage (as they do to  _everything_ ) and after a while, as the killer's fame grew, they came down hard on the "free press" and severely restricted reporting on the subject. By then, it was too late. The Lady took on a life of her own, and the public's imagination fed into her image, creating a figure as well-known and as real as anyone, like Dumbledore or Voldemort.

See, the Department of Truth misread the fundamentals of public opinion. Some people may love the Ministry, some may champion their policies, but most only tolerate it. The public complied out of fear and ignorance, not love.

_And now... Someone is showing them there's nothing to be afraid of._

Tom had a riot when he first heard that name. For a whole year, he had taken to calling Harry my lady in private. Once the news reports came pouring in, Tom decided to augment their fame. For the subsequent death, they displayed the bodies in increasingly  _interesting_  fashions, always starting with a red, velvet blindfold. To be honest, Harry found the whole process rather gross, and disturbing, especially since he suspected Tom enjoys it a bit too much.

Tom always selected their victims carefully. He always chose Death Eaters with recent run-ins with the Order of Phoenix.  _So everyone knew_ — Lady Justice strikes when her subjects are wronged. After that, they can draw their own conclusions. Connecting the dots between two of the Ministry's biggest enemies ought to be easy. Because it was only natural, after all, who else would be barbaric enough to  _target these outstanding civil servants?_

Harry supposed that he should be upset, because, by definition, a famous assassin is a bad assassin.

Yet, Harry understood why Tom wanted their name to be known. Tom had greater ambitions than just to kill his enemies. He was serious about taking the throne from Voldemort. And, to do that, Tom needed forces beyond his own. The Lady was a useful symbol. Tom wanted people to see her not as a murder, but as a vigilante, a mysterious power righting the injustice of Voldemort's world _._

_A power fighting for them._

_Although the publicity does come with a price,_ thought Harry, _its make his job much more dangerous_.

Bellatrix Lestrange, the Secretary of Peace, was obsessed with the Lady. She devoted unholy amount of resources trying to catch them. Harry was very much looking forward to the day the blind eyes of justice turning on her.  _She would look good in red velvet_ , Harry thought to himself, giggling silently.

Out of the ten Death Eaters they've eliminated, four were on Harry's list—Yaxley, Wright, Kettleworth, Wiggins— Harry repeated their name in his mind and added another one, after tonight,  _Pettigrew._

He came to a stop in front of a small shop. The shop was gray concrete like everything else. Harry looked up and found the usual red and gold sign absent. He peered through the dusty windows, but couldn't see anything due to the lack of lighting. Harry frowned and pulled out his wand.

" _Lumos_."

The end of Harry's wand lit up as he stepped into the store's dark and crammed interior.

Harry heard a rustling noise from behind him. He dodged a swing fist from his right. As his attacker stumbled forward, Harry elbowed the other in the neck, slamming the boy to the ground with a satisfying crunch. Then, leaping over the fallen body, Harry shot a stunning curse toward the reminding man, crouching next to counter. Dust fell from the ceiling as their movements rattled the small shop; next to the walls, mountains of boxes shook dangerously as they threatened to tip over.

"Relax, boys, I come in peace," said Harry lazily. He lowered his wand to aluminate the two bodies lying on the floor. Two identical faces squinted at him, playful smiles stretched wide beneath tufts of bright red hair.

"Oh, hello, Harry," grinned Fred Weasley as he wiggled his body. His arm remained bounded to his side. "I would shake your hands, but I'm afraid I'm a bit tied up at moment—"

"Yeah, sorry, mate," said George Weasley. He picked himself up and unfroze his twin. "We weren't expecting you so soon. For us small business owners, these days, you just can't be too careful."

"More Ministry raids?" Harry nodded in understanding and withdrew his wand. "Not very smart to attack them though… especially with your duelling skills—"

"Nay, just snatchers," replied George brightly. He clapped his hands. Lights came on and lit the interior of the shop. "We had a  _run-in_  with this nasty gang, few days ago. And let's just say it wasn't pretty… Hey, watch what you say about our duelling skills, or we'll be forced to show it to you."

"I believe you just did. Can't say I'm impressed, though—"

Harry smirked and surveyed the shop.

It was as chaotic as ever. Clusters of strange things spilled from every shelf. Stationaries in one— such as Flaming Ink or Spelling-Checking Quills, " _spell right or they bite_ "; toys in another— Trick Wands and Punching Telescopes, " _an eye for a black-eye_ "; and on the largest shelf, imported illegal potion ingredients – Persian Snake Heart or Troll Armpit Hair, " _ewwww, but they work_ ". In one corner of the room, a ghastly, life-sized stuffed bear held up a wooden sign that said "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes: we got things for you, as long as you've got gold."

Harry knew the twins wanted to open a joke shop, but they couldn't afford prime real-estate. And since no student will wander to this quarter of the town, they adapted. The Weasley twins were always clever, Slytherin-like in their Gryffindor-ness. And they stumbled into smuggling. They were masterful at it, too. Everyone at Hogsend Alley knew that when the Ministry's rationing rolls around, the red-haired boys were the people to talk to.

"So what can we do for our favourite gentleman, on this fine day," beamed Fred. He went behind the counter and leaned toward Harry. Harry was startled to see the man pop on a neon pink afro, which clashed horribly with the Weasleys' signature look— pale skin and freckles.

"Er… I am –"

"I bet you want to try our new products," said George as he put his arm around Harry. "U-no-poo: the constipation sensation that's gripping the nation. 'k… we're still working on that name. I don't think the Ministry will like it very much."

"Or would you like some mushrooms instead?" asked Fred, as he reached into his afro and pulled out a hand-full of mushrooms. "Muggle youth seem to like them—"

"Don't know why though—" George took one and popped it into his mouth. "Taste like brussel sprouts."

He chewed carefully, then offered one to Harry. The small umbrella-like plant glowed brightly pink. Harry shook his head quickly.

"No? Tough cookie," George shot a sly look at Fred. "Hit him with the secret weapon."

"Aye, aye. Captain," Fred saluted his twin. "You'll love this—our best seller— we even get some Ministry folks asking for it. Behold —" He slammed a stash of glossy magazines on the counter. "— the Muggle's best invention. Kernel? Corno?"

Harry picked up the magazines curiously. They all had Muggle woman on their covers, attractive girls in various stages of undress. The title,  _Penthouse_  or  _Playboy_ , ran above their seductive smiles.

His eyes twitched.

George ruffled Harry's hair affectionately. "Although these pictures don't move, they make up for it in creativity."

"Plus they're in colour! At least we know one thing— Muggles are familiar with the Engorgement Charm," Fred winked suggestively. He held his hands in front of his chest, jiggling up and down, as if he was holding two balloons.

"Very…hmmmm… tempting," replied Harry dryly. "But I'll pass. I'm here for my package, do you have it?"

Fred shrugged as if saying your loss and turned back.

"Yes, they came in the morning... Had a little trouble with custom. The Ministry is cracking down on Muggle  _imports_  lately. I wonder why?… They never cared before." Fred tapped his fingers thoughtfully. "But, no worries, we got through. Only the best for our favourite Slytherin customer."

"Our  _only_  Slytherin customer," reminded George. He tapped the counter with his wand three times and a black box materialized from thin air. George opened the box and dumped three books on the counter, two thick hard-covers and one thin paperback. "There you go, little snake prince, your royal offerings."

"We are still waiting on your list—" whispered Fred, pushing the books toward Harry. "Apparently Muggles and wizards do have one thing in common: bureaucracy is slow arse crap everywhere."

"When will it be ready?" asked Harry.

"I was told sometimes in December. Perhaps you can drop-by during the holidays?"

"I can't. I have to accompany Lucius and Draco on a trip abroad, for an international good-will conference or something." Harry sighed in disappointment. He really wanted those documents as soon as possible. If anyone, especially Tom, found out what he was up to—  _well, Harry rather not think about it._

With a flick of his wand, Harry cancelled the glamour on the books and flipped through them. The thick book with blue covers was titled " _Lock Mechanisms and Engineering_ " and a thinner yellow one was called " _Calculus for Dummies_ ". Harry poked the diagrams and none of them moved.

 _Such inconvenience,_  Harry thought,  _I'll have to read the accompanying text to understand. How can Muggles learn like this?_

He picked up the third book and frowned. He didn't order this. The beautiful tome had a red, glossy cover, with the drawing of a mermaid (a mermaid that looked human, very different from the ones that lived in the BlackLake) below large, gold letters that read " _Hans Christian Andersen_   _Collection_ ".

"We were wondering if you could bring this to Ron? He wants to gift it to Hermione," said Fred.

"Yep, but the prat got himself stuck in detention, and her birthday is next week. So—" said George.

Harry opened the book. On the very first page, Fred or George wrote something.

_Dearest brat:_

_Good luck with wooing the girl. Try harder. You better not graduate a virgin._

_Xoxo,_

_Fred and George_

Harry's eye twitched again. "You guys are horrible," he murmured.

"So you'll do it? Thanks, mate." George chirped and patted Harry on the back. "We were going to mail it, but we don't know if the Ministry still monitor student mail… And, at the moment, our family can't afford any more legal trouble."

Harry nodded. He shrunk the books down and placed them in his pocket.

"By the way, how are your parents holding up?" asked Harry awkwardly, "I heard about your father, that he lost —" He trailed off.

"—that he lost his job at the Department of Unity?" answered George. His chirpiness disappeared. "Whatever, it wasn't as if the Muggle Containment Division pays well in the first place. The only problem is–"

"—is the legal fee! Those are the real trouble," continued Fred. "Those blood-suckers are asking for the moon! If we can't make bailout payment, then—" he dropped to a whisper, "—I hoped not, but… Azkaban…"

Harry never saw the Weasley twin look so solemn. _Despite their trouble-making ways,_ Harry thought _they're good kids and the world is often unkind to good people._  Harry pulled out a bag of coins from his pocket. The galleons clucked pleasantly when Harry dumped them all on the counter.

Fred and George stared gobsmacked at the gold pile for a moment.

"Thanks for your help," Harry nodded and walked toward the door. "Owl me when my list arrives. Oh, please, keep the change."

Fred and George turned toward one another. "We can't accept this, Harry—" they said at once. But Harry interrupted.

"Consider it an advanced payment. I think we'll be seeing each other a lot in the future," smiled Harry, sincerely and gently. "Take it. I insist. The last thing I need is more gold— friends, however, I could use two more."

Identical grins broke out on their faces.

"Wait, Harry," shouted Fred as he chucked a copy of  _Playboy_  toward him. "Keep this, compliment of the house."

* * *

 

_/PAST/_

In retrospect, Harry Potter thought he made three huge mistakes.

First was he trusted Tom Riddle's words.

Second was he trusted Tom Riddle's actions.

And third— well— the third was Draco Malfoy's fault really, although Tom was not innocent himself.

See, everything went to shit sometimes after his tenth birthday.

Little Harry pretended to be asleep. He pressed his face into the pillow, biting it out of frustration. He hated his birthday. The nightmares were most vivid on this day. His dark curls were a wild mess, draping over his shoulder, because he refused to comb or cut them. After all, there was no point. He refused to attend anymore of Narcissa's boring parties, and the only way to make her leave him alone was to make himself look like a cave man.

 _Or a poodle,_  according to Tom.

Maybe it was rude of Harry, but why should he be forced to celebrate his parent's murder?

Harry bit down hard. Recently, he couldn't shake the feeling of  _wrongness_  from his body. He was tired all the time; he slept twelve hours a day; he was extremely irritable and snapped at everyone's smallest attempt to socialize with him. Eventually, Harry took refuge in his room and hid there, all the time, with Tom as his only companion.

Tom had, half-heartedly, tried to reason with him. The older boy explained such symptoms were the result of his accelerated development as a natural occlumen.  _Harry, you need to get your powers under control,_  Tom said,  _let me teach you occlumency._  So Harry did.

Yet, the lessons only made things worse. Harry hated the sensation of Tom's magic pricking and prodding his mind. And sometimes, when Tom turns frustrated with their lack of progress, the spirit would attack his mind so fiercely that Harry blacked-out for hours at a time. Although every time Harry came to, Tom would be by his side, with a sorrowful smile and apologizing profusely, promising each time that it will not happen again. Those promises, off course, Tom never kept.

Still, Harry always forgave Tom, because he didn't know what else to do. The allure of Tom's promise was too much to resist. He couldn't go back to being just  _Harry Potter Malfoy_ , the poor little orphan who was lucky enough to be adopted by the famous Malfoys. NO. He had a greater destiny— as the future slayer of the Dark Lord—the avenging angel,  _or whatever_ , and Tom was the only one who can lead him down that path.

However, somewhere, in the back of his mind, though the haze of drowsiness and denial, Harry couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was off…  _Something terrible and wrong._

Harry felt Tom hovering over him.

Tom Riddle had got stronger, gradually, over the last three months. Now the older boy could, sometimes, take on a corporal shape and leave the diary. Tom didn't behave like a ghost exactly; his colours were much more vivid than the ghostly pearly whites. But he wasn't alive, either. Tom drifted in and out of reality, a collection of hazy memories and strange magic, constantly present yet never really there.

It was unnerving, really.

Harry finally decided to give in. He opened his eyes and found Tom's red ones staring back thoughtfully.

"Do you always watch me sleep?" grunted Harry. "It's kind of creepy, you know."

"I don't sleep." Tom pointed out, as the spirit sat down next to him. "And I can't leave your room. And I can't touch anything—" To demonstrate, Tom ran his fingers through Harry's hair. Tom's slender fingers instantly dissolve into smoke, and lingered around him, clinging tight before moving away and the hand materialized again.

"—What else could I be doing? Tell me, Harry Potter."

" _I don't know_ ," snapped Harry sarcastically. He couldn't quite control himself. "Figure out a way to be a better teacher, I suppose. What do you normally do…for those years you were stuck in the diary? "

Tom's eyes narrowed momentarily. Although he didn't look angry, in fact, Tom's face often looked frozen, as if his handsome features were carved from stone, perfect and cold and emotionless. But when Harry looked closer, the coldness vanished and his thoughtful friend was back.

"I'm a good teacher, Harry. You're the one being stubborn." Tom glared at him. "You have to learn to clear your mind. It's simple— I promise— You'll just have to trust me, let me inside your mind, so I can show you."

"I'm trying—" yelled Harry. "IT'S NOT WORKING! IT'S HARD. You're always giving me a headache. I don't want lessons anymore, Tom."

"Oh? You think this is hard?" Tom stood up suddenly, his robe bellowed with his movement and its edges blurred into mist. Tom loomed over him, his perfectly-styled hair falling in front of his eyes, hiding them behind its shadows and making them imperceptible to Harry.

"Do you want to know what is really hard? Harry— Try waking up one day, and suddenly you're no longer yourself. Instead, you are floating in darkness, amid a complete vacancy, alone and forever, with nothing but your own thoughts. And you are trapped there, for days or for years, it doesn't matter, because you started to think— too much— consciously and constantly, wondering if you're alive, if you're real, if you deserve something more… Something more than being the tool of another; something more than this emptiness; something more… _free_  and  _alive_  and… _human_. Then, you decide you're human and this existence becomes unbearable. You curse and scream, but no one answers, only the darkness stretches on. Until—"

"So,  _Harry_ , my friend, I can tell you what is really hard, but I won't… I will only say this—that I will never, ever go back to the diary again."

"I— I didn't mean—" whispered Harry. He reached out to touch Tom's hand, but passed though it instead. Harry stood up on his bed, so he can be eye-to-eye with Tom.

Harry declared carefully, determination shone bright in his emerald eyes. "Let me help you, Tom. Tell me the spell Voldemort used and we'll work together to set you free. I promise."

"Thank you for the offer," nodded Tom. "I do have some ideas that I want to try— In fact, if you are not sleepy. We can try something, right now. I … just… need some of your blood."

"Blood?!" Harry hesitated. He seemed to recall reading about blood-magic, a very dark form of magic. The book had warned him that blood is a medium of a wizard's magic, a liquid life-force. A most precious thing, a wizard should always keep his blood safe, and away from his enemies, preferably inside his own body.

"Yes, just a little prick," said Tom cheerfully, a bit too eager. "Smear your blood on my diary, Harry, and I'll show you what to do next."

"I—" stuttered Harry. He knew he just promised Tom, but something nagged at the back of his mind. "Can it wait, Tom? I'm…I'm tired. I…I can't right now."

"It won't take long," Tom reassured him.

The spirit tried to grab Harry's shoulder and hissed in anger when his hands liquefied again. The anger contorted Tom's face, tearing through the diary's magic like a sword. Tom's form shimmered and dark mist seemed to be discharging from his robes.

Harry suddenly found it hard to breathe. He gulped mouthful of air, inevitably taking in the mist with each breath.

A warm feeling arose with every breath he took. It was the most wonderful feeling. Harry felt a floating sensation as every thought and worry in his head was wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague, untraceable happiness. He stood there feeling immensely relaxed, only dimly aware of Tom watching him.*

And then he heard Tom's voice, echoing in some distance chamber of his empty brain:  _do as I say… give me your blood…_

"I—" Harry opened his mouth, before he could stop himself, a loud "NO!" slipped out of him.

The haze broke in an instant, the candlelight in the room felt glaringly strong and Harry's consciousness returned.

Both Tom and Harry froze. Tom cocked his head sideways to look at Harry. The redness seemed to bleed from his eyes and into his body, making them heavier and more solid. Tom smiled— a cruel, soulless curl on his lips.

" _I see_ ," Tom whispered, stalking toward Harry, a predatory glint in his eyes. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but you left me no choice, Harry Potter."

Suddenly, at that moment, just as Harry was about to bolt from his position, the bedroom door slammed open. Instantly, Tom vanished. Beside the pillow, the thin black diary quivered. A small blonde head poked into the room.

"Sorry about that… Harry, are you asleep?" Draco Malfoy bounced in and jumped onto Harry's bed, kicking off his slippers in the process. "No? Good... Were you talking to someone?"

Harry stayed silent. His body felt stiff, still recovering from the pressure Tom exerted just a moment earlier. Harry shook his head. He threw the diary under his bed and allowed Draco to lie down next to him.

Harry let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding.  _I'll deal with Tom in the morning._

"Happy birthday! Harry!" Draco beamed and turned his clear blue orbs to Harry. The pale blonde hugged his brother tightly, as he snuggled closer. His cotton pajamas pressed against Harry's chest, soft and warm and soothing at the same time.

"You haven't been spending much time with me, Harry," whined the young boy loudly. "Why is that? Don't you like me anymore?"

"I'm sorry, Draco," replied Harry finally. His rapid heartbeat slowly settled back to normal. "My tutors are demanding— you see — homework…" he finished lamely.

"Baa," exclaimed Draco. He pouted as if he wasn't satisfied by Harry's explanation. "I'll get mummy to fire them, then. Harry, we should spend more time together now— while we can. Because, very soon, next year, you'll be eleven and off to Hogwarts… and then… and then I don't know when I'll see you again."

"Don't be silly. I'll be back for the holidays," Harry stroked his brother's hair affectionately.

It was a shame Draco was a squib, because the boy loved magic so very dearly, with a sincere, child-like devotion, still uncoloured by greed and ambition. Harry had felt the same way, once. That was before he found himself on the receiving end of another's wand, experiencing first-hand the terrible power it can bring.

"Promise me you wouldn't leave me alone—" whispered the boy, as he grabbed Harry's hand, before drifting to sleep.

Harry was startled by the quiet plead. Draco's arm pressed firmly against his chest, warm and solid, so very unlike Tom.  _It's nice to talk to real people,_  decided Harry.

"I promise," replied Harry solemnly.

Before soon, Harry fell asleep too. The two young boys lay peacefully against each other; their heads lolled together, dark and light hair tangled playfully.

For the first time in a long time, Harry slept well and, the next morning, he woke up on time, even before Draco.

However, his good mood didn't last long. When Harry looked under his bed for Tom Riddle's diary, to his absolute shock, he discovered that it was gone.

* * *

 

Author's rambling:

* Lifted verbatim(ish) from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

Sorry, I'm busy again. I'll probably need two weeks off.

 


	7. Revenge

**Chapter 7**

Harry perched on top of an old oak tree, waiting patiently for his prey to return home. He was getting worried: it was two in the morning and Peter Pettigrew has yet to show.

The traitor lived in a simple little wooden cabin on the outskirt of Little Undermole, not too far from HogsmeadeVillage. Harry can't say the decrepit, tiny cabin was what he expected, not since he knew every other Death Eater tend to bury themselves in gaudy ostentation and unnecessary luxury.

 _All Death Eaters are equal, but some Death Eaters are more equal than others,_ noted Harry duly.

Harry's legs felt numb. He had been hiding in this exact spot since nine o'clock.

_Something was … off._

Tom's intel said Pettigrew would be back by eleven and Tom's intel was never wrong. Plus, when Harry disabled the wards around Pettigrew's home, he found three inter-locking layers of complex magic, which was excessive for someone of Pettigrew's statute. Although Harry was sure he disabled them correctly, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

Harry adjusted his goggles. Its charmed lens allowed him to see in the dark. He fashioned it himself, out of silver frames and rose-tinted lens, after he read about night vision scopes the Muggles used in their wars. Although he would never admit it, Harry liked reading about Muggle inventions. Secretly, Harry fancied himself to be somewhat of an inventor. Tom would say he's just a boy playing with toys, but Harry knew Tom was secretly impressed.

_That bastard was too proud to pay Harry a single compliment, ever._

Harry was vaguely aware of a familiar presence in the back of his mind, prodding at his Occlumency shield. It was Tom, calling him though their bond. The tattoo on his back turned warm, a slight warning, but Harry ignored it.

Tom wouldn't dare to contact him through some of his more ...  _forceful_  ways, given the spirit had no clue to Harry's current condition. Harry suspected that Tom wants him to return to Hogwarts, immediately, but Harry wasn't ready to give up yet.  _He had waited too long for this._

Finally, a movement caught Harry's attention.

A stocky man stumbled off a muddy path toward the cabin. His Death Eater mask dangling off his back as he fumbled with his keys. After a string of slurred curses, the man was able to pry open the door and went inside. Harry watched intently as the lights in Pettigrew's bedroom flickered, then turned off. The little wooden cabin returned to its dark and silent serenity.

Harry slid down the tree. His movement fluid and quiet like a cat. He tabbed the oak tree three times and activated the runes he previously set-up.

A silvery dome expelled from the oak canopy and encompassed the whole cabin. Harry's magic shimmered like a thin dome of glass, then it turned invisible. Its presence saturated the air, playfully tickling Harry's senses, as it heeded to his command: to block all noises and signal from entering or leaving the cabin.

Harry frowned. He wasn't satisfied with this piece of magic. But it'll have to suffice. After all, Harry had no time to set-up a full anti-apparition ward, one that would give him maximum control, not without risking the ministry detecting a huge, unfamiliar surge of magic in the area.

See, there was this one time Harry tried to invent a camouflaged ward, but end up abandoning it due to lack of equipment. If only Tom wasn't so against him taking the exams, then Harry can become a proper Ward Master and gain access to the esteemed research department of the Warden (or more specifically, the Guild of Warden Mastery and Curse Breaking,  _but that's_   _a bit of a mouthful, isn't it?_ ).

Harry shrugged. Again, he checked his equipments.

The medallion lay hidden under his robe; its magic comforting against his chest, next to it, in the inner pocket, hid a set of silver daggers, each sharpened and ready to feast on blood. Harry fastened his cloak; its hood shadowed his face, making it obscure to all observers. The large, black cloak fluttered in the chilling winds; with his face masked beneath its shadow, Harry thought he looked quite appropriate for tonight's adventure.

 _Like Death without the scythe,_  he mused,  _happy Halloween._

Lastly, Harry pulled his father's invisibility cloak over him. Then, he was ready.

Harry entered Pettigrew's house, sliding in the shadows like an experienced predator. His dragon leather boots were charmed to be light and noiseless. And warm, to boost.

It was obvious Pettigrew lived alone; the man's house was crammed and messy. Empty liquor bottles and unmarked boxes littered the hallway, but Harry manoeuvred between them with ease. He made his way to the east side of the cabin.

Harry watched the fat man snore.

Standing beside Pettigrew's bed, Harry detected a strong stench of alcohol and sweat mingling in the air. Pettigrew hadn't change much from his memories, a little plumper and a little balder, but with the same recognizable, rat-like features. Harry felt the rage inside his chest rearing its ugly head and hissed something, sweet and incomprehensible, almost like Tom whispering in the back of his mind.

The hiss sounded angry and urgent. A familiar ringing sensation clouded Harry's mind.

 _Oh, wait, it is Tom_.

Once again, the spirit was trying to push pass his Occlumency shield. The other's force was tearing through the lighting-shaped scar on his forehead and Harry had to grab onto the bed frame to steady himself.

 _Shit, not now,_  thought Harry.

While focusing on Pettigrew, Harry pushed back on Tom attack, through their soul bond, as hard as he can. In front of him, Pettigrew murmured something in his sleep. The sound ignited Harry's temper; it flared and fuelled his magic, so strong and firm that Tom's voice faded away. Finally, all was quiet again.

Harry lowered his wand to Pettigrew's temple. The killing curse on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated.

 _NO_... _NO_. That would be too  _easy_.

Then, impulsively, Harry pulled down his cloak and removed his goggles. He tabbed the bed frame with his wand. Wooden vines sprouted from the wand's tip. It crept along the bed like an awkward snake and wrapped itself around the sleeping man.

"Hello, Peter," Harry leaned forward as Pettigrew jerked awake; his eyes droopy and unfocused.

Harry smiled mischievously, his voice warm and honeyed.

"Long time no see, old friend. Did you miss me?"

"JAMES?..." cried Pettigrew. "What?!… How?!…"

"Oh, just dropping by. You see, Peter, my dear friend, my best buddy, Lily and I miss you very much. We decided that…ah...the afterlife is simply too boring without you." Harry laughed in Pettigrew's face, as fear replaced drowsiness in those small, watery eyes. "But greetings first."

Harry jabbed his wand in Pettigrew's neck.

" _Crucio_."

Pettigrew screamed. His body writhed and shuddered violently, rocking back and forth against constrains of the wooden vines. The more Pettigrew struggled the more the vines tightened, until they cut into his soft flesh, almost strangling the man. The curse vibrated through Pettigrew, and Harry felt his own magic turn dark and sadistic, as it feasted on agony and turned even hungrier.

Harry tilted his head in fascination as Pettigrew screamed and squealed like a pig under slaughter. The mattress groaned under his weight, pitifully crying along with their master.

While Harry never found the torture curse to be one of his favourite spells (because the screams really bothers him), he could appreciate its application at the appropriate time. This... this man- this stinking, sleazy, loathsome coward- deserved to suffer everything Harry's parents have suffered- and suffer it a thousand times more.

But, first, Harry wanted some answers, so he stopped the spell. The screaming stopped; Pettigrew rocked back and forth against his constraints, sobbing like a giant baby. Tear and snort strained his face as the traitor mumbled incoherently to himself.

"Forgive me- James, James, what could I have done? The Dark Lord… you have no idea… he has weapons you can't imagine…. I was scared, James, I was never brave like you and Remus and Sirius. I never meant it to happen…. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me — He — he was taking over everywhere! Wh — what was there to be gained by refusing him?" *

"WHAT COULD HAVE YOU DONE?!" Harry roared with anger, "you should have died! You should have died rather than betray your friends, as they would have done for you! " *

Harry took a deep breath to calm himself. He tilted Pettigrew head upward, forcing the other to meet his eye and asked,

"Explain something to me, Peter. Why did Voldemort come after me that night?"

Pettigrew shrunk under Harry's glare.

"TALK!" demanded Harry, his eyes bored into Pettigrew. He lowered his wand into Pettigrew's chest. "Unless you fancy another go—"

"NO… No more, please...Please...I'll tell you everything!" squealed Pettigrew. "The Death Eaters wanted Sirius, because...because Bellatrix believe he stole something from her. I don't know what- I only overheard something about Regulus and Gringotts- I know no more! I swear! They don't trust me, you see... "

"I'm sorry, James, I didn't know they would... I was just so scared, because once Sirius escaped to France, I thought y'all left with him. You and Lily and Harry... I never meant for it to happen... None of it... it's not my fault."

Harry stared down at the pathetic lump of a man crying in front of him. Pettigrew's mind was weakened by fear and clouded with pain, so Harry performed legilimency on him with ease. Harry sifted around shards of memories and feelings, then determined that Pettigrew was telling the truth. The man really knew very little about the inner workings of the Dark Lord's government.

The pure-bloods contemned him; the Death Eaters distrusted him; and the Dark Lord thought so little of Pettigrew that he wasn't even worthy as a pawn in the New Government. In the end, the rat had betrayed his friends — his only friends — for a life-time of laborious toil at the bottom of pure-blood society, a lonely existence, drowning himself in liquor and busy running from his past, hunted by fear and guilt.

Harry grimaced. Pettigrew's mind was not a pleasant place.

In truth, Harry didn't like to use legilimency, because, he feels, there was too much  _interpretation_  needed. The mind was not an open book, black words on white pages, clear and easy to understand. No, the mind was a maze: every memory tainted by feelings; every idea steeped with conformity; every thoughts blurred by the grander of self-delusion and deep dark desires. Trying to navigate though all that junk requires...certain skills and determination... and concentration on the part of the Legilimen.

Even most experienced Legilimens were cautious when entering another's mind. The mind-link was a two-way express, an unstable and unnatural bond between two people. Yes, it was a powerful tool, but a dangerous one as well. A momentary lapse in concentration, a weakness in one's Occlumency shield, could spell disaster— magical backlash may occur, causing immutable brain damage for both parties. After all, there were good reasons why Legilimency is considered one of the most treacherous Dark Arts.

Harry still remembered vividly the one time he tried to read Tom's mind. The agony he felt from Tom's Occlumency shield— red hot like his anger— burning on the inside of Harry's skull.

 _Physic pain I can handle,_  thought Harry,  _but the mind... the mind sure is a nasty place_.

Finally, Harry's business was done.

"Goodbye," he said to Pettigrew.

Harry award the traitor one last disgusted look and lowered his wand again.

"NO! PLEASE! NO...James, Lily wouldn't have wanted me killed! Your wife... she would have spared me! She would have shown me mercy!" *

Harry paused. He could almost hear Tom's words in his head.  _Mercy to the enemy is cruelty to one's self._

Harry smiled a little, despite himself. Maybe Tom was right, about how killing will give Harry his peace of mind... Or maybe not, but it was the only thing Harry knew how to accomplish.

"NO! PLEASE!" yelled Pettigrew desperately; the traitor must have recognized the look in Harry's eyes. "I didn't — I didn't betray you, James. I never told them about Harry, about how you faked Harry's birthday! I swear on my magic, I didn't tell them... I didn't..."

Harry frowned, "What are you — "

But his question was cut off mid sentence, because, suddenly, unexpectedly, the door bell rang.

Both assassin and soon-to-be-victim froze, as the ringing sound cut into the night, clear and piercing like the chilling winds of autumn.

* * *

 

_/PAST/_

Little Harry was in deep trouble. Very much so.

You see, he lost his best friend. Yep, he lost  _Tom Riddle—_  not lost as in Tom died, but lost as in literally he can't find Tom.

It has been a week since his tenth birthday. And it has been a week since he last seen Tom Riddle and his diary. At first Harry just thought Tom was mad at him and avoided him on purpose. But, very soon, Harry realized Tom was actually gone and he started panicking.

Harry searched high and low for Tom Riddle's diary. He torn through his bedroom, Lucius' library, the basement lavatory (so literally everywhere) looking for the little black book. And found nothing.

Harry banged his head against the headboard, berating himself for fighting with Tom.

The last week has been unbearable. Lucius and Narcissa had left for vacation and Draco had been avoiding him for some reason, which leaves Harry alone in the large empty Manor, butting heads with their strict governess, Madam Rachman, on whether Harry should continue his French lessons.

Harry hadn't realized how much he depends on Tom's guidance until now. The more time Harry spent— alone—with his own thoughts, the more his fear and uncertainty came rolling back. Memories flooded Harry, almost drowning him with emotions, in feelings that Harry thought he had forgotten. Harry felt like he was six again, all alone in the world, living a lie among enemies who destroyed his life... living a past that he thought he had left behind.

Although his headaches were gone, Harry was having reoccurring nightmares so he couldn't sleep. Staring at ceiling in the dark, in the middle of the night, Harry couldn't help but wish for the sounds of Tom's voice, reassuring and confident, warm and quiet, telling Harry a story about a Wizarding Guild that defeated a werewolf colony, and whispering to Harry that he is safe, that he has a purpose in life, and that he has someone who can help.

A loud crackling noise appeared in mid-air. Harry rolled off his bed, just in time to avoid a soft body from landing on top of him.

"Dobby?" exclaimed Harry.

The grey-skinned house elf scurried up. In the dim moonlight, Harry could barely recognize the Malfoy house-elf as it turned those large, saucer-like eyes toward him. Dobby looked eccentric (well, more so than usually) as he was covered with goo and mud from head-to-toe, and its eyes were unfocused and distant, staring right through Harry.

"How terrible... How terrible...Find help... must find help." Dobby murmured to himself. The creature torn at his potato sac nervously, dropping mud onto Harry's bed.

"Dobby?" Harry tried again, tabbing Dobby's shoulder gently.

"Master Harry!" yapped Dobby, as if noticing Harry for the first time.

"Oh, Master Harry... Master Harry... Master Harry." he said, frantic in its breathing. "You must help! Dobby was ordered ... get Master Harry... Help ... Get Master Harry... Help Madam Rachman. "

"Calm down, Dobby." Harry tried to hold onto the nervous creature, and wiped some mud from Dobby's face. He grasped in horror.

"Dobby?! Is... is this blood?"

Harry's touch seemed to snap Dobby out of his stupor. He leaped into action.

Dobby nodded. "Blood. Yes...Not Dobby's... Must follow orders, sorry, Master Harry."

Then Dobby grabbed Harry's arm, instantly, with a harsh tag behind his navel, Harry felt the familiar sensation of apparition as they both disappeared from the Malfoy Manor.

* * *

 

Author's rambling:

* Adapted from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

 


	8. Red Scarf

**Chapter 8**

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania.** Check out her story " **The Fate Changed Now What?** " on Fanfiction . net

* * *

 

"Good evening, Mr. Pettigrew."

The two Aurors greeted Pettigrew pleasantly as they stepped into the crammed living room. One of them was a head taller than the other; both dressed in the simple, crisp, standardized Ministry uniform. Pristine, intimidating, they towered over Pettigrew as the nervous man ushered them toward the couch.

Pettigrew pulled at his hair nervously. His mousy hair tossed in a wild mess, as if protesting being dragged out of bed at this ungodly hour. The fat man wrapped a thick blanket tightly around himself, leaving only his weary face visible to the visitors.

"Good evening?!" exclaimed Pettigrew, after the Aurors politely refused his offer for a seat. "It's two o' fucking clock in the morning! What in Merlin's name do you want?"

"Fun night, Mr. Pettigrew?" the older Auror raised an eye-brow, as he leaned in to inspect Pettigrew's blood-shot eyes and sweat-drenched brown hair.

"Long night—" grumbled Pettigrew unhappily. "Thus, I would very much like to go back to bed. Still have work in the morning, ye'see."

"Off course, off course," nodded the older Auror sympathetically. "We won't be long. It's just that... we received a report from the Ministry, regarding a disturbance at your residence. There is a break in your ward, Mr. Pettigrew. Have you noticed anything unusual lately?"

Pettigrew frowned.

"No, nothing at all. I don't understand... Are you saying someone tried to break into my house?"

The older Auror gestured for his partner to hand a folder to him.

"Not exactly, Mr. Pettigrew." the tall man smiled politely, and continued in his forceful but tedious monotone.

"I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but, as ordered by the Department of Love, the ward around your house has been upgraded... to a newer, more secure version. Your ward is now linked to the Ministry directly. It will inform us of any — shall we say — unusual activity within your house, including unauthorized entry, exit, or any attempt to alter the ward. As per order of the Magica Security Act, we must ask you to remain within the confine of your house, Mr. Pettigrew. You mustn't attempt to change the ward without permission from the Department of Love. That will constitute as an imperial crime, I am afraid."

Pettigrew blinked confusedly at them. He opened his mouth, then shut it without saying anything.

"You're under house arrest!" blurted out the younger Auror. The young man glanced at his watch impatiently, before turning back to Pettigrew.

"So, for Salazar's sake, don't ya try to break down the Ministry's ward no more. Alright? It adds a lot of paperwork for us. And I REALLY don't like that **—**  "

The older Auror held up a hand to interrupt his impulsive partner. He gave the young man a berating look, a stern warning from an old soldier. The young man shuffled nervous and back off immediately. The older Auror turned back to address Pettigrew, his polite artifice sliding back in place, flawless and humourless like the Death Eater's mask.

"Off course, this is all set for your protection. You understand— "

The older Auror smiled, flashing a row of white teeth at Pettigrew.

"The Ministry is trying to purge out traitors and some precautions must be taken in the mean time. I'm sure your good name will be cleared...very soon, Mr. Pettigrew. After all, you are one of the original Death Eaters, for which you have my admiration... In the mean time — I'm afraid— you must follow the laws of the Ministry, just like the rest of us. Thus, you mustn't attempt to leave the confine of your house without informing the Ministry again, Mr. Pettigrew, or there will be consequences to pay— "

The Auror leaned toward Pettigrew, forcing the fat man to fall back onto the couch. Despite the honeyed tone of his voice, his blue eyes were as cold as steel.

"As of October 31st, we, the Aurors of the Department of Love, received words of unauthorized attempt of ward-breaking at Mr. Pettigrew's residence, an act which remains an imperial offense under the Magica Security Act. Considering this is your first offence, I'm going to let you off with a warning. However, as you know, the Ministry don't tend to give second chances."

The stoutly Auror paused to let his threat linger, before breaking into a cold laughter.

"So, Mr. Pettigrew, I trust I'm being perfectly clear?"

Leaning forward, the Auror offered the brown folder to Pettigrew. On its cover, the large Ministry of Magic seal glowed neon green, the snake sigil slithered away from the skull's mouth, coiling back and readying to strike.

* * *

 

Harry crouched behind an old bookcase, with the invisibility cloak wrapped around him, his wand in his hand, pointing steadily at the Aurors.

He debated briefly to himself, on whether he could subdue both Aurors and oblivate them. He was remarkably gifted with mind charms, being a natural Occlumens and all. Still, his training had taught him all about caution. Experience had taught him to never to bet against the odds. No...Patience and ingenuity are what's called for here.

Harry had placed Pettigrew under the Imperius curse, then instructed the traitor to get rid of the visitors as soon as possible. It was an easy spell. The traitor's mind was too weak to resist. So far, everything seemed to proceed according to his plan.

He listened to the Auror's conversation intently. He tensed up when they mentioned Pettigrew's house arrest. That explained why the Aurors are here **—**  they realized someone had tampered with the ward in Pettigrew's house. Harry frowned...  _but why is this important detail missing from Tom's report? Tom wouldn't betray him, would he?_

Harry shocked his head to force himself from that horrifying thought. He refocused his attention on the problem at hand.

The Aurors stood by the door, Pettigrew trailing by their side. The fat man was fidgeting nervously. Harry could feel Pettigrew fighting desperately against his control, struggling for one last chance to save himself.

"Good night," said the older Auror as he extended his hand to Pettigrew.

Pettigrew took the hand shakily. They shook, then Pettigrew held onto the man's hand.

"Mr. Pettigrew?" The Auror raised his eyebrow. Still Pettigrew wouldn't let go of his hand.

Harry swallowed.

The cold silence in the room was not good for his nerves. He felt his heart racing, hard and steady, so loud that he feared its beating would give him away. As quietly as he could, Harry slid close to the men and crouched behind the sofa. He pointed his wand over his head and strengthened his hold on Pettigrew.

Finally, Pettigrew let go. The traitor's mind settled down and Harry was back in control once again. Harry breathed a sign of relief as he wiped sweat away from his brow.

After which, all hell broke loose.

* * *

 

"Yeah, yeah. Good night, Mr. Pettigrew. I sincerely hope we would not have to see you again," snapped the younger Auror impatiently.

The older Auror shook his head at his partner's rude conducts. The boy was not ready to be an Auror, he thought, the boy was barely waned enough to be called a man. The lad, who was only four-years removed from Hogwarts, definitely did not have enough combat training or social adequacy for this job. No brain, no brawns, only youthful arrogance and over-enthusiasm for violence. The boy was, in short, a terrible partner.

The department used to be all about honour and duty, not about whose father was the head of what. The older man scoffed. He should know all about honour. After all, he was old soldier who earned an Order of Merlin for his bravery at the battle of Edinburgh. He had fought on the RIGHT side **—**  to keep the Wizarding kind's blood pure, to make magic strong, to protect his people from the ever-growing Muggle threats.

Yet, nearly eighteen-years after the war ended, the old soldier can barely recognize the New World he had helped to build. It wasn't as the Dark King had promised **—**  a true free magical society **.**  No... their world, the Ministry's world, became a dictatorship of brutal power, over-ran by maggots and power-hungry climbers.

_Corrupt to the core. Even an old dog can see that._

The Auror pushed the traitorous thoughts out of his mind and let out a long-suffering sigh.

_Perhaps it's time to put in that transfer for the desk job, after all._

The senior Auror gestured for his partner to apologize to Pettigrew.

The younger Auror held out his hand grudgingly. In his usual clumsiness, the young man stumbling forward and stepped on Pettigrew's blanket, pulling it from Pettigrew's body and onto the floor.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS **—**  " exclaimed the young man confusedly, once the sheets fell away to reveal the terrible bruises on Pettigrew's arms.

Two things happened simultaneously.

Pettigrew squealed loudly, and instantly began shrinking. His pyjamas fell onto the floor. A dirty, brown rat emerged from the pile and scurried away before anyone can react.

A stunning curse flew from out of the darkness toward them. The old man deflected it with a flick of his wand; the streak of redness flew to his left and shattered a window to a million pieces. Soon the spells began to fly, dancing in their swirl of deadly colours.

Everything exploded around them. Torrents of broken shreds and glass rained on him; the chairs and tables lay busted in the middle of floor; the over-head lamp swung back and forth, casting flickering lights upon the chaos, before it, too, exploded into pieces.

They were duelling in complete darkness. The assailant had taken out the light source as soon as the battle has started. His enemy seemed to be everywhere, sending vicious spells from every corners of the crammed room, hidden by the veil of darkness.

The old man narrowed his eyes.

 _NO, that is not right_...

The pattern of attacks seemed too regular to be from a group. No, this was the work of an individual assailant. A particular powerful assailant, who is capable of rapid firing spells, but who is too inexperienced **—**  or too arrogant **—** to disguise his attacks properly.

 _With a little patience_ , the old man grinned to himself,  _I can bait this bastard out_.

Then, off course, his idiotic partner had to go and ruin everything.

"AVADA KEDAVRA! AVADA KEDAVRA! AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The young man shouted blindly into the dark, sending the killing curse everywhere. The green lights lit up his face; fear evident in his voice.

"IDIOT!" shouted the old soldier. "GET DOWN! Don't give away your position!"

But it was too late. He watched in horror as a green light bounced toward the boy, then heard the body hit the floor. Instantly, the older Auror leaped from his hiding place and rushed toward the body. He made sure his shielding charm was in place, before reaching for a pulse.

Surely the lad was too young for death. He was barely old enough to be a man. And the war had ended for over sixteen-years... He...he can't lose another comrade... He can't **—**

He did not see the knife coming…

* * *

 

Harry barely had to time to duck when the old men send the columns of flame toward him. The bright orange heat consumed the couch, lighting it up like a bonfire. Sweat drenched Harry's robe. A nasty burn crawled up his leg, accompanied by white hot agony, intense and sharp like nothing he had ever felt before.

Harry cursed under his breath. His right leg was useless now. He had to lean on the wall to remain standing. Breathlessly, Harry strengthened the ward around Pettigrew's house. He couldn't let the traitor escape.

_NO, no, not after the man had seen his face..._

Harry suppressed a moan. The pain shot up his body in waves. He gasped. He needed water... no, he needed rest... Harry's head felt dizzy; his thoughts consumed by pain and heat. He needed to end this now.  _Back-ups from the Ministry will be here any minute._

_And Tom will be so angry with him._

More killing curses flew past him. It became increasingly difficult to find a hiding place amongst the rubble. Everything was in pieces. Magic saturated the air, almost playfully tickling Harry's senses, teasing him, daring him to use them, to do what is necessary.

Harry peered at the Aurors. He could see well from behind his night-vision goggles, but he lost track of the old man.  _Damn it._  He doesn't have time for this.

 _They are coming for you,_  said a voice in the back of his mind.  _They are coming to slaughter you like they did her._

_He needs to end this now._

Harry raised his wand. The killing curse was easy to cast, after all he had practiced it a hundred times with Tom. He felt his panic leaving with the spell. It was strange in a way, casting the killing curse was almost cathartic. It provided him with a moment of clarity, fleeting and frail, a moment of life born from dark and murderous intents.

As his spell made contact and the Auror's body fell to ground, Harry felt nothing. He watched as the other Auror emerged from his hiding place, kneeling beside his dead comrade.

 _Careless_ , thought Harry,  _if he thinks that he is safe behind that shielding charm._

Harry remembered the day that Tom taught him about shielding charms. "Concealment is the dueller's only friend in battle... and arrogance is always his down-fall," he had said. Then, Tom gave him a lecture on how shielding charms can be penetrated by goblin-made silver and gave Harry a set of silver daggers for his birthday.

He threw the dagger. It flew fast, straight like an arrow.

The ruthless knife slide into the man's skull easily. Its quivering silver handle protruded out between wide eyes. Dark pupils stared forward blankly, almost as if they were directed at Harry, looking through him, accusing him of a silent crime. Blood trickled down the man's face, in thin streams like tears. Then, the body toppled over stiffly, falling on top of the other dead Auror with a light thud.

The silence in the room was deafening. Harry could hear his own heart beat, thumping, racing, reminding him of the time.

Harry approached the dead body with caution. He removed his dagger and wiped it clean. The dead man's eyes were still open, staring forth at the ceiling, empty and distant.

Harry almost choked when he recognized one of the Aurors. It was Marcus Flint, his old Quidditch captain. Yes, it was the same Marcus, with his bushy eyebrows and buck teeth. The boy looked almost normal, like he is sleeping.

Harry's hands began to tremble. It was undoubtedly Marcus **—** _the same boy who had knew Harry, who had made fun of his glasses, who had made him the Quidditch captain and made him promise to win the cup for Slytherin. To win the cup, always_ …

Suddenly, unexpectedly, all his feelings exploded **—** guilt, anger, fear, fatigue, all tied together in knots. Harry felt sick to his stomach. His legs gave out and he keeled over, almost falling on top of the bodies.

But he didn't have time for feelings. He never did.

Harry laughed, loudly, hysterically to himself. A crazy, deranged laughter like the ones he hears in his dreams. Then, he pushed all those feelings aside.

_He didn't have time for feelings._

"Here, mousy, mousy.  _Where are you_?" he sang to the dark.

Harry stood up and raised his wand.

"Peter, Peter. You should know by now that you cannot escape from me. I am your past. I am your sin. I am the debt you had yet to repay. Earlier, I put up a ward around your house, dearest old friend. It'll prevent you from leaving."

Harry smiled. He felt so empty inside.

"Do you know why I placed a medallion around your neck? Hm... Do you know what it is, old friend? It is a rat trap. And it is especially made for you."

He activated the stunning curse he had stored in the Ward Key. In one corner of the room, a white light bloomed briefly and the fat man rematerialized on the floor.

The fat man lay on his back, stiff as a log. The only thing indicating his living condition was his eyes. Those small, watery eyes followed Harry's every movement  **—**  terror overwhelming in them. He was completely naked, with only a golden medallion wrapped around his neck.

Harry snatched the medallion away. Terrified tears began flowing down the traitor's face.

"Aw, shhhhh, it'll be all over soon," Harry stood over Pettigrew and held out a red scarf.

"Do you know this is?" he asked softly.

Judging the look on Pettigrew's face, he knew the fat man had recognized the scarf, as all Ministry stuff would, because to them, it is the symbol of death.

"This is justice," continued Harry.

"Justice stitched from blood and pain from all those the Ministry has wronged. And, as you know, they have wronged so many...  _So many_... So many good people, like Lily and James Potter. The Potters were your friends; they trusted you; and you betrayed them."

Harry dropped the scarf on the fat man's petrified body. Red against pale flesh, it looked almost like real blood.

The night was dark and silent. The cool October air carried along a refreshing muddy scent.  _The woods were beautiful in the moonlight,_  Harry thought,  _perhaps he will have a chance to visit again, someday under better circumstances. Perhaps Tom will come with him._

He smiled again.

"For justice," he said to Peter. "Good-bye."

He drew up a circle of flames and set the whole cabin ablaze. Then, he apparated away, leaving behind only the red scarf and Pettigrew's silent screams.

* * *

 

Author's rambling:

OMG! That was a severely delayed update... I'm sorry... T_T... I have no excuses.

I can't believe this scene went on for so long... I mean it's just Harry murdering three people in cold-blood. No biggie, right?

 


	9. The Barn

**Chapter 9**

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania**

* * *

 

By the time Harry emerged from the Whomping Willow, it was already four in the morning. The dark forest was eerily silent. Without even rustlings of leaves, the vast woods looked and felt like the last place on Earth.

Harry tucked the daggers into the invisibility cloak and hid them in the charmed poach around his neck. With the Marauder's Map's help, Harry picked the safest route back to the Slytherin Common Room, carefully avoiding the patrols, as he made his way toward the dungeon.

If he hurried, he could still get in five hours of sleep before class. He'll need his rest. After all, Harry had a Quidditch match to prepare for. Currently he was in no condition to fly. His right leg hurt like hell. With his muddy boots and crumpled robe, Harry sure he looked like hell too.

He let out a sign of relief when he rounded a corner and saw the Slytherin Common Room door at the end of the damp corridor.  _Home. Safe. Bed._

"Where do you think  _you_  are going, Mr. Malfoy?" said a deep, disdainful drawl.

Harry stopped in his tracks.

_Fuck, if it isn't the last person he wanted to see under the circumstance._

"Actually, I much prefer Mr. Potter," replied Harry as he spun around. Harry tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace.

"— that is, only if you don't mind, headmaster."

There, in a corner, perfectly blending in with the shadows, stood Headmaster Snape. He was a tall, thin man with sallow skin, a hooked nose and greasy, shoulder-length black hair. At the moment he scowled, with a familiar threatening glint in his eyes, Snape's customary greeting for Harry. Below the wavering candlelight, Snape's pale, waxy skin looked deathly, almost vampire-like in their crankiness.

 _Except,_ Harry thought,  _Vampires are supposed to be attractive._

Snape strode toward him. The headmaster looked terrifying, as usual. His lengthy, black cloak bellowed wildly in the windless corridor, flipping like wings of a giant bat. Harry wished that his cloak did it too.

" _Mr. Malfoy_ ," Snape spat with venom.

"You may fancy yourself above the rules, as evident by your utter inability to abide by them; but, once again, must I remind you that Hogwarts' curfew is applicable to  _everyone_. As per declaration of the Ministry, within Educational Decree Number Thirty-Three. And by everyone, I mean absolutely  _everyone_  — arrogant dunderheads or not."

Snape stopped right in front of him. He stood too close; Harry could smell burned potion ingredients emitting from the other man and it was making him nervous.

"My...My sincere apologies, Headmaster." Harry bowled to Snape, with one arm folded across his chest, the highest sign of respect amongst pure-bloods. "I must've... lost track of the time, sir. It will not happen again, I assure you."

"Your assurance means nothing to me," countered Snape coolly. "Your apologies even less.  _Where have you been?_ "

"I was at the pub," replied Harry quickly. "It is Halloween, sir, partying, drinking. I must been having too much fun."

"Oh?" Snape raised an eye-brow. "Which pub, then? Tell me, I must know of the party. Hogsmeade is  _not_  that big."

"A muggle pub," lied Harry smoothly. "It's called The Renegade, near Abbeyhill. You see, Professor, Hogsmeade is for the unadventurous lower-years, and I am way past that."

"Off course, off course. One can't have a party without breaking  _all_  the laws," replied Snape dryly.

" _Empty your pockets._ "

Harry did as he was told. He took out the three muggle books, his wand, the Marauder's Map (deactivated, thank goodness), a bag of Honeydukes and handed them to Snape. At that exact moment, the lingering curse on his right leg flamed up, painfully, forcefully, burning like a red hot iron pressing against his thigh. Harry's legs wobbled under his weight. Stumbling forward, Harry narrowly missed bumping into Snape as he steadied himself against the wall.

"Is there something wrong,  _Mr. Malfoy_?" inquired Snape as he flipped through one of the books.

_Didn't Snape just love to enunciate every syllable in that name, slowly and particularly, just because he knew it bothered Harry so…_

_That ugly git!_

"Drunkenness," Harry gritted through his teeth. "I'm sure you've suffered the same affliction sometimes during your youth,  _sir_."

Snape didn't look amused. Suddenly, he slammed the book shut and his expression shifted. For a moment, the Headmaster almost looked worried. A flicking of emotion filtered across his face, so subtle that Harry thought he had imagined it. Then, the cold sneer was back in place; the Headmaster stepped closer, and forced Harry against the wall.

" _I know what you are up to, boy_." The Headmaster leaned in to whisper, so quietly that Harry barely heard him.

"That arrogance of yours is imbecilic, insufferable, and rooted in a dangerous ignorance. This world is not simple; it is not naive; and ignorance will get you killed,  _boy._ "

"What—"

"Don't think, not even for a moment, that your silly little lies can fool me. For instance, how did you get injured in a muggle pub,  _Harry Potter_?"

Harry turned pale.

"I don't know—"

"Oh? You don't know? Then, I suppose you wouldn't object to a trip— right now— to infirmary and provide such evidence, would you? And how about in front of a grand jury of the Wizengamot? Hm...? Not so brave now, are we?" Snape's eyes darkened.

" _Come_.  _We need to talk. NOW_ …"

Snape grabbed Harry's collar and dragged him forward. Harry pushed back on instinct, too stunned and confused to say anything. His head and arms jerked forward, almost bashing into Snape. The sudden movement ripped his robe, threads and buttons popped from his collar, yet it wasn't enough to shake Snape loose. The Headmaster's bony fingers were surprisingly strong and Harry couldn't pry them free. They tussled for a moment, back against the cold stone wall, fists flying, before—

"Pardon my interruptions," a familiar voice interjected.

Draco Malfoy peeked from behind the Common Room door, staring at them with undisguised surprise. Even in the middle of night, Tom looked perfect, with his Hogwarts uniform pristinely pressed and his blond hair slicked back.

Harry has never been so happy to see him.

"DRACO! HELP!" yelled Harry without thinking. "Your godfather is trying to rip off my clothes!"

The ensuring silence made Harry cringe. He didn't need to look at Snape's face to feel the other's fury.

 _He was dead_ …

… _Oh, so dead._

* * *

 

_/PAST/_

Little Harry landed, face first, in a pile of mud, Dobby's soft body by his side. Wobbling, Harry got back on his feet. Still reeling from the nauseating sensations of Appariting, he felt dazed and sleepy as he pulled at his wet pyjamas. Harry's vision blurred, it seemed he had lost his glasses in the fall.

"Yuck," said Harry as he spited out a mouthful of mud. "Where are we, Dobby?"

In response, the skinny house-elf made a pathetic wail sound and started sobbing loudly. Harry shot the creature an annoyed look. Judging by Dobby's reaction, you would think it was Harry who dragged him, in the middle of the night, unannounced and without permission, from a warm bed to god-knows-where.

Harry took a quick survey of the room. They seemed to be in some sort of abandoned barn. There were bundles of hay and empty boxes all around him; some rusty tools hang on the walls; next to him, the empty stalls smelled strongly of goats. Harry blinked. He couldn't be sure of anything without his glasses, except that he definitely had left the grounds of Malfoy Manor.

"Hey, Dobby! Snap out of it!" ordered Harry. "What in Merlin's name are we doing here?"

Dobby wailed even louder.

Harry sighed. Dobby was always eccentric (even for a House Elf), but Harry has a soft spot for him. He was always kind and patient to Dobby, much more than Lucius Malfoy could ever be, and he always thought Dobby liked him, trusted him, as his master and as a friend.

Harry walked toward Dobby and knelt by his side.

"Dobby?" asked Harry softly. "What's wrong? Is it Lucius? Is he mad at you? It's okay... Talk to me."

"Dobby... Dobby is sorry... Master Harry," sniffed Dobby, as he put his thin arms around Harry and buried his head against Harry's chest. "So sorry... so sorry. He made me... he made me... Master Draco...in danger... and... he made me... so... so sorry."

Feeling completely lost, Harry patted Dobby's pointy ears confusedly. He noticed a pool of dried dark liquid in front of him. His eyes followed the trail of dark liquids to the opposite wall, and Harry saw the most horrifying thing hanging above closed barn doors.

It was in the shape of a woman.

Her arms and legs were nailed into the wall, spread apart and arranged her body into the shape of a cross. Dirty blonde hair obscured her face, and below that, a huge gaping hole replaced where her stomach should be. Some sickening globular things protruded from the dark hole, seemingly growing straight out of the depth of Hell. In his blurred version, Harry couldn't see exactly what was spilling from her body, but just the outline of it made him want to puke.

Harry took a step back in horror when he recognized that ugly, purple dress.  _He knew her!_  She was his governess, the stern and frowning Madam Rachman, who was forever cussing at Harry in German and who always smelt like lavender.

Harry felt sick.

"DOBBY!" yelled Harry, his voice suddenly an octant higher. "GET US OUT OF HERE— NOW!"

Before Dobby could react, a stunning curse flew out the darkness and hit him squarely in the chest. Dobby's small body flung through the air violently; then his back hit the barn wall and fell to the ground.

A familiar child-like voice drafted down from above them.

"Now, what's the rush, brother dear?" intoned the voice sweetly. "You don't like what I've done with the place? Aw, I'm hurt. After all, I made all these preparations especially for you—"

* * *

 

Author's rambling:

This is a short chapter, I know. But I really wanted to end it here :P

Give you one guess to whom is the mystery person. The winner gets a kiss from the Weasley twins.

And a huge shout-out to my BETA,  **Krysania**  ! You also get a kiss from the Weasley twins.

 


	10. Firebolt Light

**Chapter 10**

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania**

* * *

 

_/PAST/_

Little Harry swallowed thickly. The damp summer air felt suffocatingly hot. Sweat dripped from his face into his collar, making him itchy and uncomfortable. Oh, how he hated the pungent smell lingering in the vast barn— the smell of rotten wood and livestock; the smell of mold and blood; the smell of... fear.

"Draco?!" exclaimed Harry as he looked up toward the voice.

A dimly outlined figure smiled down at him. The blonde boy was leaning casually on the railings of the barn's second floor. Draco was also in his pyjamas, in a pale blue satin nightgown that Narcissa brought from Paris. He almost looked comically out of place in the dark, empty barn, standing in front of a dead body and twirling a wand between his small fingers.

"DRACO!" repeated Harry urgently. "You've got to help me. We've got to get out of here. NOW. There's a murderer out there... I don't know who he is, but he could be along any moment... Please, help me—"*

Draco didn't move. Harry, sweating, managed to hoist Dobby half off the floor, and tried to shake the House Elf awake.*

Harry's pulse nearly stopped when the familiar voice spoke again, in that delicate childish tone, so gentle yet so cruel.

"Come, Harry, my dear. You and I both know you are not  _that_  stupid... Now put the nice House Elf down and we can continue our discussion,  _properly_ this time."

" _Tom_ ," answered Harry softly, and surely; then he dropped Dobby as Tom commanded.

Harry turned to look at the locked doors, a thick chain binding them, and signed deeply, before returning his attention back to the boy above. Although this being looked and sounded exactly like his brother, Harry knew instantly, with absolute certainty, once he heard that mocking tone and felt that intense aura, that this creature was the boy from the diary, the boy who was his confidant, who was his guiding light, who was his friend...

_His only friend..._

Harry's mind went completely blank. His eyes flickered between the unfortunate dead woman and the boy he thought he knew, and his stomach turned to knots. A million questions swirled in his mind, but he couldn't find the strength to ask them.

" _Tom_ ," repeated Harry instead, dumb-founded.

"Yes, my dear?"

Tom chuckled. He leaped down from the second floor and landed in front of Harry gracefully. His blue stripped pyjamas swayed with his movement, in a way that almost looked like he was flying.  _Yes_ ,  _like flying without a broom._  The absurd situation conjured up images of Peter Pan Harry had seen in picture books, those colourful drawings of wonderful, magical, innocent fun were always a childhood favourite.

Tom's smile broadened as he inspected Harry.

"Did you miss me, Harry, hmmm?" Tom smirked, as he tilted Harry's face toward him.

Harry stared at him blankly.

"Ah, off course, you did," said Tom. "First of all, I would like to apologize for my abrupt departure... and I hope it didn't concern you too much. It's just... little Draco here offered me an opportunity that I could not refuse. "

"How—" Harry started, but couldn't seem to find the right words. "Why—"

"I'm afraid I don't speak in tongues," said Tom, still smiling broadly. "I've got to say, I thought your reaction would be more entertaining than this."

"How did Draco get like this?" blurted out Harry.

Tom ignored his question. He tightened his grip on Harry's face.

The pain monetarily jolted some sense back into Harry. Harry tried to free himself. He pushed back at Tom, ready to punch the boy, before a pulse of magic shot through him like electricity. Harry gasped in pain and dropped his hands instantly.

"Now, that's more like it," murmured Tom. " _Be a good boy. Stay still_."

He leaned in close to inspect Harry's face. His breath felt hot and wet against Harry's cheek.

In the proximity, Harry saw Draco's crystal-blue eyes were glowing bright crimson, a distinct redness that was identical to the red-eyes in Harry's nightmare. Harry trembled as the memory of that day flooded him, almost drowning him in the redness. He remembered the petrifying feeling of facing death... And how shamefully he responded, how his body succumbed to fear, betrayed him, and rendered him powerless as his world shattered around him.

So Harry stood his ground. His green eyes met Tom's glaze fiercely.

 _Powerless or not. He is no coward._  He swore it that day he will never, ever, let fear defeat him.

_James and Lily Potter's son is no coward._

Tom's hand moved greedily across his face. The long fingers wondered toward his eyes.

"Oh yes, they are very green, indeed," said Tom, to no one in particular. "The Malfoy Squib did say so... the colour of jade... No, I think they are a shade darker than jade. Hmm, perhaps the colour of the killing curse...No, that's not right either—"

Tom smirked. His hand now moved to Harry's hair. Pale fingers threaded through wild tangle of black curls, pulling back and forcing Harry to turn his head, positioning him in a way that he couldn't see Tom's face.

Harry snarled in response.

"Isn't it curious how people never learn to appreciate what they had until it is gone?" whispered Tom into Harry's ear, soothingly and intimately, hot breath on his skin.

"The simplistic brilliance of colour, the warm textures of skin, the unbearably hot days of summer that burn like sauna... These are things — things of the world — that I couldn't believe I've forgot... Things that, in my younger and foolish days, never held any  _significance_  to me."

"It's been  _fifty years_  since I've seen colour, Harry Potter,  _fifty years_  since I've held another. The world inside the diary was all wash-out in ink and blankness... and dark magic, off course. I've been nothing but a consciousness, a memory, drifting in a sea of words, living — or so I believed I was living — amongst abstract ideas and written ambitions... That world,  _my world_ , I eventually realized, was nothing.  _Nothing_... But emptiness surrounding me. I was immortal and eternal and  _everything_  I always wanted... but in the end, I was miserable..."

" _Fifty years!_  Fifty years is too long to spend with anyone, especially yourself—"

Tom continued to stroke Harry's hair absent-mindedly. Harry couldn't see Tom's face from the angle he was being held, and he couldn't comprehend what Tom was telling him.

_More lies, perhaps?_

"It has been so long that I forgot what it was like to be alive."

Tom continued, "I forgot the sensations, the needs, the ambitions, the desires...  _Everything_... I was unsatisfied, you see, Harry. But I couldn't figure out why? Why was I missing being human? I never cared for silly human sentiments and I  _never_  desired them. I knew I was missing something, but what—"

Harry shifted uncomfortably.

The added heat from the other boy made him sweat like crazy. Harry tried to move away, but Tom's grip was unyielding. With one hand pulling at Harry's hair, Tom's other hand moved toward his exposed throat. For a moment, Harry thought Tom was going to strangle him, but, instead, Tom pressed gently against Harry's jugular, feeling the pulse quicken beneath warm skin.

"I didn't understand. I couldn't— until the day  _you_  showed up," said Tom quietly. "Your magic woke me. Faint light magic at first —and it confused me, because I couldn't believe  _he'd_  let the diary fall into the hands of a light wizard, so I stayed silent— until I felt it again, your magic seeped into me, and then I felt your anger, a powerful thing tinged with darkness. It fascinated me."

"So I wrote to you. We talked, for... I believe... over three months, didn't we? You told me about all your worries and fears— everything— how you missed your mother, how you couldn't sleep at night, how you loathed Lucius and Barty and Bellatrix and Pettigrew and, off course,  _him_...Didn't you tell me everything,  _Harry_? "*

Tom laughed, a high, chilling laugh that didn't suit him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry's neck.*

"It's all very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of a nine-year-old boy. But I  _was_  patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. You simply  _loved_  me. Didn't you, Harry?"*

"No," whispered Harry.

Something inside him broke.

"Oh, yes," Tom whispered, mockingly. " _I can't trust anyone but you, Tom... I'm so glad I've got you to teach me, because you are simply brilliant, Tom...It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket..._ " *

Tom laughed his high laugh again. Harry went completely still.

"Let this be a lesson to you, my friend. Never trust anything in this world, especially something that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain. Off course, don't be too hard on yourself. I've always been able to charm the people I needed... if I do say so myself... So...So as you poured out your soul to me, I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of your magic, your emotions, your... secrets."*

Harry's fists clenched, the nails digging deep into his palms. An over-whelming rage jolted him, displacing his internal turmoil and panic. Harry bit his lips hard. He couldn't let Tom see how much this is affecting him.

Harry focused on his rage.

 _Rage is a good emotion; it is much less painful than betrayal_.

"And I continued to grow... more and more—" said Tom." I became more concrete, more powerful. Then, one day, you came to me, in the memory, and I saw your face. Your  _eyes_ —they ...they were  _coloured_. A flicker of green. I couldn't believe it!  _Green_. The colour of vitality.  _Green_  that I haven't seen in fifty year..."

"Suddenly it hit me. What I am missing... what I am yearning for is— is the real world. The living world, of colour and of solid materials. Seeing you made me realize that I need to return to the land of the living."

Tom wiped a sweat from Harry's cheek. The gentleness of the other's touch startled Harry. He frowned.

_Why was Tom telling him this?_

_Lies, more lies,_ Harry told himself firmly _, he is not your friend. You don't need friends._

" _Harry Potter,"_  said Tom softly.

He went on.

"You fascinate me... See, at first, I thought you are just a skinny boy with a bit of magical talent. But, soon, I realized you and I are  _similar_... and that is why you were fated to find my diary. Both our lives are not easy, but we have the power to fight back. You might be born a light wizard, Harry, but I sense a darkness in you, a darkness that is so delightful... and that is just what I need."

"You remind me of what used to define me, what drove me...  _My ambitions_. My ambitions are what gave my life purpose. And now I have them back. I want what Voldemort has—  _real_  power, and the world bowing at my feet.  _At my feet_. Not his.  _But MINE_."

Tom's fingers dug into Harry's skin, holding him tight. His voice sounded eager, in that childish, excited way Draco used to gash about Hogwarts.

"I am going to take it from  _him_ ," hissed Tom excitedly. "I will take everything from him, and that will fulfill me at last. I deserve it all. I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, are born to greatness. I'm the Slytherin heir. I am no one's servant. I will not bow to anyone... Not even to  _him_. Listen, Harry, I will fashion myself a new identity, a identity that wizards everywhere would one day revere more than him, when I—  _and I alone_ — has become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"*

"I've been thinking about how to define my identity, as separate from Voldemort. And I have come to the conclusion, and you inspired me on this, the only way to define me... is to kill him. I have resolved to do that—wouldn't that make you happy, my dear?— and then I will be ready to take over the throne."

Tom stepped back, finally releasing Harry from his grasp. His red-eyes stayed on Harry face, searching hungrily, expectedly, as if he thought Harry should clap for his magnificent monologue.

"Well, that was fascinating," Harry spat vehemently. "Congratulations on your epiphany. But what do you want from  _me_ , Tom?"

"That is an interesting question. I want what all man wants — wealth, power, prestige— I want it  _all_. But, at this moment, right now, Harry, what I want—"

Tom smirked. The hungry look grew in his eyes, making the redness seem brighter, bloodier.

"— is you."

* * *

 

Harry dragged his limp leg across the Quidditch Pitch, cursing under his breath. He still hadn't found a counter-curse to the burns. The pain came in waves, sapping the energy out of him. But he still had to fly, and he  _had_  to win.

The match with Gryffindor didn't wait for anyone.

Harry shot a glance toward the observation towers. Students filled all four towers to the brim, a vivacious excitement vibrating among them. There were scatters of red-and-gold, but most of the crowd were decked out in green-and-sliver. It was an unspoken rule in Hogwarts, that Slytherin was always the right choice— the  _only_  choice— because it was the Dark Lord's choice. And, whether you like it or not, the Dark Lord was always right.

Everyone knows there was no free choice in New Britain, not even in sport fandom.

Harry found Snape's dark form in the front row of the teacher's area. The man never comes to games. There was no question he was here to spy on Harry. After their little  _incident_  last night, Snape had let Harry go with one month worth of detentions. (Luckily, he didn't dock points from Slytherin, but Harry supposed that Snape would rather gnaw his own leg off before docking points from his beloved Slytherin.)

But Harry knew his trouble was far from over. The Headmaster will be out for his blood now, so he can't make any mistake, especially he can't allow Snape to see his injury.

The tattoo on his back pulsed once; Harry turned toward the opposite tower and saw Tom staring at him. Tom was sitting with his usual group of posses and admirers. Although Harry can't see Tom's face from the distance, he knew the spirit was annoyed with him.

Harry didn't have a chance to speak to Tom yet. Between their social popularities, it was hard to find a moment to be alone. In Hogwarts, the walls have ears. (Literally, those Portraits gossiped like no other, because what else are they suppose to do with all that free time.) So they must be extra cautious, always. Besides, Harry wanted a moment to gather his thought, prior to willingly subject himself to Tom's interrogations. He needed to, somehow, explain his utterly stupid decision on taking two Aurors by himself—

_Marcus, oh shit._

He couldn't think about the dead Auror now.

He didn't have time for guilt or emotional break-downs.

Harry caressed his brand new Firebolt Light gently. Flying would help; the liberating experience of soaring amongst the wind was always calming for him.

Harry gestured for his team to form a huddle.

"Alright Slytherins! Get ready, our moment is HERE," said Harry to his team. "Remember the plan. Who has the most important position on their team?"

"The keeper," they replied in unison.

"Right, so take out their keeper first. Use the Triangle. Theodore, you bait. Blaise and Millicent, you trap. Crabbe and Goyle, you execute. Got it?" Harry pointed to each of the player in turn.

They nodded.

"Good. Let's destroy them like we did last year." Harry grinned. "READY? SLYTHERIN—"

"VICTORIOUS!" shouted the entire team as they held up their brooms together.

They took their positions in the middle of the pitch, standing in a straight line from across the Gryffindor team.

"Hey, Malfoy!" shouted Ronald Weasley, the Gryffindor captain, at Harry. "Why are you walking funny? This ain't no ballet show."

Some of the Gryffindor laughed. Ginny Weasley, the new Gryffindor seeker, did not.

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"Crabbe, Goyle. Aim for his head," ordered Harry firmly, pointing a finger in Ronald's direction.

The two beaters grunted in agreement.

Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on his silver whistle. The crowd roared raucously.

Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were off.*

Harry circled above the zooming players and pelting Bludgers, watching the proceeding like a hawk. His eyes searched for the gold of the Snitch, and occasionally, he barked out instructions to his team. Harry glided in the air, graceful, like an alert bird of prey. The cold current beat against his face, but he felt good.  _Confident. Calm._

Then, the pain started. His right leg was on fire. He griped the broom tightly, and hissed in anger. The momentary distraction almost proved to be fatal, as he barely dodged a Bludger, which went spinning dangerously past his head. In the rush, Harry's broom lurched forward; the momentum almost threw him off. The pain was clouding his mind.

_What was he doing again?_

"You okay, Cap?" shouted Theodore as the boy zoomed past him.

"Fine. Stay on your pass—" Harry started yelling at his Chaser, but suddenly he changed direction with a sharp, right-angle turn and dove straight toward the ground. In a blur of green, Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet. The crowds grasped and screamed in confusion.

The ground became closer and closer. The world faded away, until he was just meters from hard soil, Harry shifted all his weight toward the back and pulled up abruptly.

The crowd screamed as he hit the ground. The Firebolt Light rolled away, but Harry landed on his feet. There was a moment of silence. Then, Harry wobbled up, his right arm raised above his head, the golden Snitch clasped in his fist. He grinned triumphantly.

The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one could ever remember the Snitch being caught so quickly. *

"FIVE MINUTES TO CATCH! FIVE MINUTES!" shouted the announcer on top of his lungs, although the crowd's thunderous cheers almost drowned him out.

"A RECORD FOR THE AGES— What a game! What a game! WHAT A GAME! And what a way to begin the season, boys and girls!— SLYTHERIN WINS!"

Streams of students rushed onto the field, his team-mates landed beside him; screaming, cheering, they swarmed him and all tried to congratulate him at once. The noise was deafening. The pain was killing him and Harry couldn't think straight.

Harry pushed against them, but he couldn't find a way through. Harry's head felt light. Faintly, he could make out Snape's black robe walking toward them. Then he panicked. He was ready to curse them, when, suddenly, a hand grabbed him and tugged him free.

Tom's posses formed a security line and allowed them to escape. Tom held onto Harry's hands firmly. He walked fast and brought Harry to the edge of the Black Forest, where they were alone, away from the crowd and noise.

The Ouroboros tattoo turned warm at Tom's touch. The other's magic seeped through their soul bond, and Harry grimaced when he felt the hot anger.

"I'm sorry—" said Harry quickly, before Tom could open his mouth. "I meant to speak to you last night, but—"

" _ **Are you daft?"**_  hissed Tom. His voice was calm, cold even, but his eyes were seething with red anger.

_**"Is it worth breaking your neck over a silly little record, in a silly school-yard game? Have you no sense of self-preservation, Harry Potter? Do I need to lock you up, just to keep you alive—"** _

"WHAT?!" Harry blinked in confusion. "Oh, THAT?... That was nothing. That's just a variation of the Wronski Feint. Don't worry about it. I've done it  _many_  times before."

Tom gave him a scalding look, but decided to back off.  _For now._

"Look, we don't have much time," continued Harry hurriedly. "Snape is looking for me. He is suspicious. And...he knew I sustained an injury somehow, and maybe—" Harry swallowed. The truth was too terrifying to even contemplate.

"Maybe he knows..."

"Oh, he knows something alright," replied Tom. "But I don't think he knows about  _our little secret_ , not yet anyways. After all, he has no reason not to report you to the Ministry the moment he suspects anything. I think he's just fishing. It is important to maintain your composure in these situations."

"What's wrong with your leg?" asked Tom, as he regarded Harry's posture suspiciously.

"Hmm? OW! Watch it!" yapped Harry in pain, as Tom poked his wand at the cursed leg. "I tried the counter-curse already. It didn't work... I think I'll need a potion for this one. But, more urgently, what are we going to do about Snape?"

"What happened?" asked Tom, ignoring Harry's question pointedly. "You were...  _hurt_?"

" _ **Yes,"**_  Harry nodded, switching to Parseltongue for security reasons.  _ **"Fire curse. There were two Aurors there, and I took care of them."**_

Harry was surprised when Tom hooked his arms around his waist to steady him. His leg did feel better by shifting his weight to the other side, so Harry leaned into Tom and hoisted his arm across the other's shoulder.

" **Aurors?"**

 **"Yes, two,"**  murmured Harry.  **"Three dead, including Pettigrew."**

_**"How?"** _

_**"You missed something on your Intel. Pettigrew was being watched by the Ministry. House arrest, they said."** _

Harry was relieved to see the surprise flittering across Tom's face. So the spirit did  _not_  know.

_It wasn't a set-up._

"I—" Tom tightened his hold on Harry wrist, and he turned to look at Harry, a controlled regret swimming in those red-eyes. "I promise you I will get to the bottom of this. Someone will pay — _dearly_ — for their grave mistake."

"Don't sweat it," answered Harry. "Just make sure it doesn't happen again. More importantly,  _what_  are we going to do about Snape?"

Tom pulled a canteen from his pocket. He plucked a hair from Harry and dropped it into the potion. Then Tom took a large swag from the canteen. And Tom's body began to change rapidly. His hair curled at the tip and turned darker; his pale skin turned tanned; and a faint, lighting-shaped scar appeared on his forehead.

Harry knew the Polyjuice Potion tasted—and felt— absolutely dreadful, so he was very impressed by Tom's stoicism throughout the change. Tom remained utterly still as his skin bubbled and stretched, as his bones lengthened and shortened; until, finally the transformation was complete.

Tom took Harry's glasses and plopped it on. The two boys stood side-by-side, the exact same height, same build, same messy, wild dark hair, completely indistinguishable from each other.

"Woah, twins!" grasped Harry in delight. "This is amazing. Can you do my potion NEWTS for me?"

Tom rolled his eyes and draped the Invisibility Cloak over Harry.

"I will deal with Snape. You go wait for me in the Room of Requirement. Go  _straight_  there, understand?"

Harry nodded.

"Tom?" called Harry softly.

"Yes?"

" _Thank you.._. And can I ask you for one small favour?" said Harry, a bit hesitant.

Tom's eyes — which were Harry's eyes really— widened slightly, and he smiled, a slight twitch of his lips, but it was there.

"Yes?"

"Er, do you mind picking up my Firebolt?" Harry grinned sheepishly. "I seemed to have left my baby behind in all the excitement—"

* * *

 

**Author's rambling:**

* Adapted from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secret and from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

And a huge shout-out to my BETA,  **Krysania**  !

 


	11. The Rite

**Chapter 11**

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania**

_/PAST/_

Little Harry knelt in a puddle of mud, his hands bound behind his back, his head hung low. The night was dark and silent. The only noise came from Tom's soft footsteps, as he moved around Harry and scribed letters onto the floor.

Tom was working on some sort of rituals. Using elaborate movements of his wand, Tom levitated few candles and rocks to form a spiral around Harry. Then, with the great care of a seasoned artist, he began hand-painting detailed characters on them, layering spells on the way. Harry recognized some of the twisted characters from books on Ancient Runes Studies, although what-ever purpose they serve... he can't begin to imagine.

Harry knelt in its center, motionless, trapped, like a fly caught in the spider's web. He could feel Tom's magic encircling him. It felt almost familiar, like whispers of an old friend, like the hidden warmth in the diary. Tom's magic was dark, yes, but familiar to Harry; within it held false comfort beneath layers of burning power, sweet and seductive.

Despite the heat of the summer, Harry felt cold inside. As he stared blankly at the mud, a familiar sort of desperation awoke in him, and pushed his mind toward a depthless numbness. The despair of being betrayed yet again, of being abandoned, of being a powerless, useless,  _fearful_  little boy— he felt it all, swirling in a cloud of incomprehension and anger, gnawing at him, tearing him apart.

Finally, he looked up at Tom.

"Are you going to kill me?" asked Harry simply, impassively.

"Perhaps," answered Tom without looking away from his work. "I haven't decided... You fascinate me, Harry Potter. But... you are also troublesome. It will be easily to just kill you, I suppose."

"What are you doing with all this, then?" asked Harry again, titling his head to the ritualistic substructures.

"This will help me get inside your head," replied Tom, his voice composed and pleasant as if he is discussing the weather.

"Don't look so surprised, my friend, because, technically, this is all your fault... Yessss, your fault for making things so... difficult. None of this ought to be necessary, if you weren't such an obdurate child. None of them— Miss Rachman or the Malfoy boy—needs to die, if you were willing to submit to me. But, alas, you weren't... So here we are..."

"I don't understand," frowned Harry. "I did everything you've asked, Tom, what—"

"Everything?" laughed Tom, a cold, high-pitched laugh. "I suppose I do want to everything from you, Harry. Everything... your body, your soul, your magic,  _everything_..."

"You've been my target for the past two months. I've been working on you, trying to gain your trust, trying to find a part of your mind that I can attach myself to. You see, at some point, I need a physical body and you would be the perfect vessel for me. Just  _perfect_... Harry... since we are so similar...Both half-bloods, orphans,  _powerful_... We even  _look_  something alike."

"Perfect— except that whole natural occlumency thing... Harry, have you wondered why Voldemort's memory charm failed on you that day? Why are you doomed to remember forever? Hm?..."

Tom still didn't lift his eyes from the inscribings before him. Harry wriggled his arm, while keeping his movement as discreet as possible. The ropes that bound his arms weren't very tight; perhaps he could still do something.

"Mind-magic is a powerful thing. Not many wizards understand how it works, and even less can practise this ancient craft. However, there are wizards, who are fortunate enough to be born with power of mind-protection. It seems you are among them."

"I will admit you are a powerful Occlumens—" continued Tom "There are not many grown men who can keep my attacks at bay, let along a young boy. I've worked on you, but progress was slow... You wouldn't open you mind to me, not fully, anyways... Now why is that, Harry? Was it intentional...? Or is it because you didn't know how to control your powers? Or is it because, despite your pathetic co-dependent behaviours, you never— truly — trusted me...? "

"You weren't... teaching me occlumency?" asked Harry quietly, turning his gaze towards Tom.

Harry pulled on the ropes some more. It became looser. He had to keep Tom talking, to distract the other somehow.

" _Tom_... All the things you've told me... Is...is any of it true?" asked Harry again. He tried to keep his voice steady, but it came out as a feeble whimper.

Tom pretended to stoke his chin in contemplations. Finally, he looked at Harry. His red-eyes glowed ominously in the darkness. They roved over Harry, and met Harry's own, those green eyes ablaze with hatred. Tom smirked, his expression grew hungrier.

"My name is really  _Tom Riddle_ ," said Tom, gleefully. "And I really do want Voldemort dead... and that's about it, I'm afraid—"

"Oh, yes. It's done. Finally. Wonderful," exclaimed Tom as he set down his paint-brush.

He strode toward Harry. His pale blue night-robe flittered in the windless night, swayed by the rhythm of magic that saturated the room. He stopped right in front of Harry, and tilted the boy's face toward him.

"Sorry for the wait," Tom murmured, as he gently brushed Harry's hair aside. "I haven't done a rite for so long, I'm afraid I'm a little rusty."

With a corner of his eyes, Harry saw the thin, leather-bound diary floating in front of Tom. Some ink dripped from it, leaking onto Draco— no, no, Tom's— fingers.

Tom moved to in closer. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and felt Tom's soft lips pressed against his forehead.

"Be a good boy," Tom whispered soothingly. " _Stay still_."

Then, using the dark ink on his fingertips, Tom drew a symbol on Harry's forehead. The outline of the symbol felt like a squiggly line. Some ink dripped from Tom's pale fingers, and ran to Harry's mouth.

They tasted salty— salty with a tinge of metal.

Harry felt sick. He suddenly realized those aren't ink at all, but... blood— warm, fresh blood that smelled like death, probably harvested from that poor woman hanging above their heads.

Harry's heart pounded. He had to say something.  _Anything_. Despite his occlumency shield being intact, Harry was afraid of the way Tom's eyes stared into his soul, afraid that the spirit knew exactly what he is thinking.

 _He's toying with me,_  Harry thought, breathless.  _He knows, he knows._

Red-eyes born into Harry's skull.

"You failed with me. So you had to use Draco—" blurted Harry, his voice still shaky.

" _Oh, yes_ ," Tom nodded. "My back-up plan. I know when it's time to move on..."

"You see, young Draco was much easier to fool. He took an interest in me, after noticing us together. I think he was jealous how much time you had spent with me... Once he began writing to me, though, it took no time to gain control of him. He was open book, easily to manipulate—" Tom smirked "— _Oh, I want to be a wizard so bad, Tom...I will do anything, ANYTHING, to get in Hogwarts... I wish father would look at me; I wish he would be proud of me..._ "

Tom chucked to himself. He released Harry and stepped back. He seemed to tower over Harry, despite not being much taller. His molten dark magic swarmed them, revealing his true nature, a potent and domineering demon hidden by the facade of an innocent boy.

His pale blue eyes glowed bright red.

_Red like blood._

"Off course, I would much prefer to be with you, Harry... but, sadly, you don't seem to share the sediment."

"So I had to change my plans... I had to take up temporary residence with Draco...here. But, unfortunately, as you know, he is a  _squib_. And I can't do much without a reliable source of magic. I can kill people, here and there, and borrow their magic for a bit, but, eventually, all magic— any magic —need to be sustained by  _life_. And so... Only living bodies will do..."

"So you understand, Harry, I'm a man great ambition—" Tom waved one hand dramatically "— I  _can't_  be a squib."

Harry digested the information slowly.

"Draco is still alive then?" whispered Harry.

"For now..."

Tom wiped his hands on his robe, leaving a bloody hand-print on the soft silk. He surveyed his work with a satisfied grin and, with a flick of his wand, he lit up the candles in sequence.

One by one, flames appeared, until all seven candles lit up. Their wavering glow filled the barn, leaving a melancholy orange tint on the Tom's pale skin, and, for a moment, he looked little a young boy again, like Draco Malfoy, Harry's naive brother, who adored magic so, so much.

Then, he withdrew a gleaming silver dagger from thin air. Tom's twisted smile grew broader under the candlelight. He held the dagger to Harry's face, pressing the cold steel into soft flesh.

"Has anyone ever told you—" said Tom quietly, staring at Harry with unwavering eyes. "— that your eyes look so lovely when they are full of terror."

Harry eyed the diary floating by Tom side. He didn't dare to answer.

Tom moved the blade to Harry's forehead, where the symbol was drawn, and pressed down hard. Searing pain torn through Harry. The pain was so, so terrible, great and incongruent with the size of the wound. Harry felt his head split open, something dark and needy was clawing at his mind.

Harry moaned. He slid to the floor. Blood and ink dripped from his face, in steady drops, until they disappeared into the mud.

Tom dropped the dagger and began chanting. His hiss was soft yet formidable, in rhythmic Parseltongue. As the rhythm of the spell rose and fell, Tom whirled his wand overhead, awaking the magic in the room.

Harry attacked.

With a twist of his wrists, Harry broke free from the ropes. He lunged for Tom. The other, whose eyes widened in surprise, turned just in time and managed to evade his attack. But he wasn't Harry's target.

Harry leaped for the ceremonial dagger and snatched the diary from mid-air. For a split second, both Harry and Tom, wand still raised, stared at the items in his hand. Then, with all his strength, Harry seized the dagger and plunged it straight into the heart of the book. *

There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink, mixed with warm blood, spurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over Harry's hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing and then — *

He stopped.

Tom stood up; mud and ink covered his night-robe, rendering it a muddy brown. He was no longer smiling.

"That was a terrible mistake, Harry," hissed Tom, raising his wand. "You think a knife can stop me? I have already transferred my conscious to Draco... There's nothing you can do to stop me now."

"Perhaps I've been too indulgent with you. It is time for you to learn your place—"

Tom lowered his wand to Harry's temple.

Harry closed his eyes.

* * *

 

Harry sat in front of a bubbling cauldron,  _One Thousand and One Potions for Medical Use_  open beside him. He dropped three Thandox roots into the potion. A pungent smell emitted from it as he stirred the potion anti-clockwise.

The Room of Requirement transformed its interior akin to the Slytherin Common Room, with its lime-green lamps and black leather sofas, even the frayed tapestries hung from the exact same locations. This was Harry's default room, his comfort place, his home. Yes, his home has always been at Hogwarts, and  _only_  at Hogwarts.

The door clicked open.

"Hello, Tom," greeted Harry without looking up. "You got my baby with ya?"

Tom tossed over the Firebolt Light. Harry caught the broom before it hit the floor and set it down gently.

Tom sat down next to Harry. He returned to looking like Draco, although his blonde hair was tossed in an uncharacteristic manner. Harry deduced that meant of either Tom taking the Firebolt out for a ride or that the Polyjuice potion had worn off recently.

The second explanation was the most probable. Harry frowned. Tom was gone for two hours... He shouldn't need two hours to deal with Snape, unless —

"Everything alright?" asked Harry as he stirred with unnecessary tenacity. "You are  _late_."

"Am I?" hissed Tom, softly. "Now you know how I feel every time you run off. We established an order, no? Next time, when I call you,  _you answer_ , got it?"

"Is this about yesterday?" grumbled Harry. "Because I was fighting of my life, you know, so sorry I missed your  _calls_ —"

Suddenly, Tom shifted closer. He placed a hand on Harry's cheek and turned the other boy's face toward him. Harry's eyes widened in surprise, but before he could protest, Tom leaned in and rested their forehead together.

Harry felt a tingle of magic rang through the lightening-shaped scar. He inhaled involuntarily; Tom's scent filled his nostril, the smell of rain and old books. Harry became very aware of Tom's staring at him intently; his cheek burned warm where the other's hand rested on his skin.

"This is not about me controlling you," said Tom softly. "And you shouldn't fight me, Harry. We are at war, but not with each other... We need to learn to communicate. It is the key to winning any battle. It is the difference between life and death... By acting so reckless, without any plan, you are endangering us both."

"We have a soul bond, Harry. Take advantage of it. Our minds are linked together, yours and mine, by blood and by magic. Certainly, mind-links are frail, and it shouldn't be used very often, but it shouldn't be ignored either. Next time—"

Tom's words abruptly stopped.

 _Next time_ ,a sweet voice hissed in Harry's head, drifting at edge of his Occlumens' shield.  _Next time don't you dare ignore me._

Harry blinked. Tom's red-eyes looked so brilliant at this proximity, like the world's most exquisite rubies

"Promise that you will work with me—" whispered Tom, switching back to speech again. "—that you trust me... If you need me, brother dear—  _always_   _ask_ — you know I am there for you."

Harry stared at Tom.

He wanted to believe him, he really did. But if there was one thing Harry learned from all those years living with Tom Riddle, it was that he couldn't afford to give his trust away.

"I promise," said Harry thickly. But he didn't really mean it.

_Not, he didn't._

Harry turned his head and shook off Tom's hand. They sat together in silence, watching the cauldron simmer, until Harry spoke again.

"What happened with Snape?"

"I spoke to him," replied Tom. "And, unfortunately, he is suspicious of you. However, fate has yet to abandon us, Snape is unaware of our true goal. He thinks you are sneaking to Hogsmeade to conduct illegal activities with the Weasley twins, so I let him think that."

"You LET him think I'm a smuggler?" dead-panned Harry. " _Great_... Just  _great_. Because that prick doesn't hate me enough already."

Tom shrugged.

"Precisely, which is why I arranged for a time for you to go and apologize to the Headmaster. Formally. With a letter of regret, as dictated by pure-blood custom."

Tom tapped the cauldron with his wand, and the potion turned bright lemony yellow. He put out the heat, and placed a cooling charm around the cauldron.

Reading the sour expression on Harry's face, Tom laid a solemn hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Perhaps you should try a different tactic. You see, men like Snape don't response well to force or threats. So, why don't you try a softer approach? Appeal to his softer side, his sympathy or compassion. Sometimes... great soldiers must lay down their swords before they can advance."

Harry snorted.

_A softer side, as if that greasy-haired git has a softer side... except_ _maybe_ _for his doughy mid-section._

Harry stared at Tom, horrified. "You are not telling me... to grovel at Snape' feet?"

"I am," Tom smirked. "I am telling you to cry as well... And to appear pitiful in general. Don't worry; you are adorable...so it shouldn't be too hard for you."

" _Argh_...Why can't we just kill him?" groaned Harry.

Tom rolled his eyes.

"Because life doesn't work like that, Harry. Trust me... I wish it did. Anyways, I had a rather...  _enlightening_  conversation with our dearest Headmaster, earlier. Dare I say he can be useful to us, one day... eventually."

"Are you saying he is trust-worthy?" asked Harry slowly.

"NO, absolutely not," Tom shook his head. "You can't trust anyone but me... However, what I am saying is that... the loyalty of Severus Snape is not as steadfast as you would think. The world is not black and white, Harry dear. People are not divided into friends or enemies. I think Snape can become... useful to our cause."

"So...You want me to test him?"

"Let me deal with that," said Tom as he conjured a cup from thin air. "All I want from you is for you to rest, heal, and to not cause trouble for the foreseeable future. Obviously, though, that is not happening. So I think I am being very fair, Harry. We both can't get what we want."

Harry signed. He still wasn't very happy with the idea, but he supposed it was the best possible out-come.

"Drink," demanded Tom, as he thrust a cup of yellow potion to Harry's lips.

Harry obeyed. The potion tasted awful, bitter like bile and it smelled like old socks. But it worked. The burning sensation on his right leg vanished instantly, not even a scar was left behind.

Harry got up. He wobbled a bit and almost fell into Tom's lap.

Tom steadied Harry with both hands. He guided to boy toward a large bed in the middle of the room, which wasn't there a second ago. The bed was a four-poster bed, with green and sliver drapings, just like the ones in their dormitory, except it was much larger, king-sized.

Harry plopped onto the bed. A sudden drowsiness over came him.

"The potion contains Sopophorous beans' juice," explained Tom as he also climbed into the large bed. "So it has sleep-inducing functions. Rest here for tonight. I will send a house-elf to fetch our clothing for tomorrow."

Harry closed his eyes. He heard Tom laid down next to him, their shoulders touching, lining up side-by-side.

"Do you think the Slytherins'll notice we are missing?" mumbled Harry, his eye-lids heavy and droopy.

"Oh, they will notice," replied Tom, nonchalantly. "Although I doubt they dare to say anything... Go to sleep."

"Night," whispered Harry.

He wasn't sure if Tom heard him, but, judging from the reassuring squeeze Tom answered with, Harry was going to assume the spirit did.

* * *

 

**Author's rambling:**

***** Adapted from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secret.

AHHHHHH! I don't know why this scene (between Tom and Jerry, I mean... Harry O_o) is taking so long, I seriously planned for it to take two chapters! TWO CHAPTERS!

And now it's been four chapters since Dobby showed up... And I'm still not done. OMG! I blame it on Tom's monologues. Because I ain't gonna blame it on myself :) His monologues tend to run for too long, maybe I just had too much fun writing them or something... (I swear I'm not a psychopath... or sadistic... or whatever). -A-

But, okay, Tom... shut up... I want to finish this scene. Don't you know that when villains monologue, THEY ALWAYS END UP LOSING. You have too much screen time already...

And I still have to introduce Voldy and Lucius. Man, it's going to take a while. T_T

And a huge shout-out to my BETA,  **Krysania**  ! *Clap, clap.*

* * *

 

Bloopers:

Scene #3

(Harry and Tom lay on the bed in the Room of Requirement. They stare at ceiling.)

Harry: Pssst, Tom, you asleep?

Tom: ...

Harry: No? Good... Tom, I forgot to ask you. Why did it take you two hours to talk to Snape?

Tom: It didn't. It took me ten minutes. Then your teammates saw me, and obviously they thought I was you, so they dragged me to their idiotic celebration party.

Harry: OH! What did they do?

Tom: The usual. They tried to get me to do shots and dance like a manic... Nothing I couldn't handle. Although...what is WRONG with that Nott boy?

Harry (laughs nervously): Yeah, Theodore tends to act a bit too familiar when he's drunk.

Tom: Remind me to cut his arm off.

Harry: ... Please don't. I would be one Chaser short... And I really, really can't put Markel Lestrange on the field, that kid is less coordinated than a tap-dancing Gatorbeast.

Tom: Also, remind me to punish Greengrass.

Harry: Astoria Greengrass?! Why? What did she do?

Tom: She tried to kiss me.

Harry (grins): Ohhh! You mean she tried to kiss  _me_. Wicked!... She's hot.

Tom: ...

Harry: Hey, Tom. Can you tone down the murderous intent? It's hard to sleep like this.

Tom (grabs Harry's arm and holds it to his chest): ...

Harry: What?

Tom: If you insist on annoying me, I am going to do the same.

Harry: Okay, Okay. I'm sleeping. Nightie, night. Don't let the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks bite.

Tom (closes eyes): ...

Harry: Tom?

Tom (opens eyes): ...

Harry (grins): Can I get a good-night kiss?

Tom (throws pillow at Harry): ... For Salazar's sake, go to sleep before I curse you.

 


	12. The Oath

**Chapter 12**

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania**

* * *

 

Harry chewed on his blueberry pancake with contentment. It was cooked to perfection, a slice of sweet, fluffy, eggy golden-brown, topped with fresh honey and an assortment of colourful berries. Bubbles the House-elf had just brought up their breakfast, straight from the kitchen, with piping hot tea and a vase of fresh flowers, to the Room of Requirement so Harry and Tom can dine in peace.

 _Ah, House-elves are curious creatures, ain't they? So happy to serve, so eager to please..._  Harry couldn't understand them at all.

He eyed Tom, who was sitting across the table, diligently working on his bacon and biscuits. The other's attention was focused on the newspaper before him. Harry was impressed by Tom's impeccable manners — the way the sprit handled his cutlets with the precision of a surgeon; the way his velvety tone drove conversations and mesmerized its listeners; the way he walked with an undeniable swagger; even the way he dressed, in elegant and luxurious robes that underline authority, radiated a natural confidence. Harry supposed that Tom Riddle must been born a pure-blood, in one of those ancient and noble houses, or, at the very least, he was very apt in playing the role of Wizarding nobility — as someone who was born to rule.

Tom seemed to noticed Harry's attention. He looked up from the paper and smirked.

"Look, you made the front page... again," Tom waved the paper at him, mockingly.

Harry reached over and snatched the paper from Tom.

He smoothed out the Daily Prophet and laid it on the table. On the very top, in large blocked text, the head-line screamed:

"THE LADY RETURNS: three gruesome murders discovered in Little Undermole."

Beneath the head-line, a large drawing filled the page. Momentarily, Harry was confused to why the Prophet hadn't included a picture of Bellatrix Lestrange (as they normally did, after crime-scene photos were outlawed by Ministry years ago). Usually, the Secretary of Peace would bare her teeth at the camera and swore bloody revenge on behalf of Voldemort. After each of her failed attempt to arrest the culprit, though, Bellatrix's photos looked increasingly deranged as her words got bloodier and bloodier.

Harry smiled, at least this meant more sleepless nights for Bellatrix.

The drawing showed a rather cartoonish rendition of this so-called Lady Themis, also known as Lady Tee: a woman with a comically large head, her eyes hidden with blindfold and her dark hair a tangle of curls. In one hand, she held forth a brass balance and the other clasped a blood-stained sword. The dark stain extended to her white tunic, all the way down to the hem of her dress, where her bare foot rested on top of a decapitated head.

Harry shook his head.  _Such a ghastly picture for a Tuesday morning._

She waved her sword at him, her movement jerking and awkward. Harry was not impressed by the paper's animation spell-work.

Harry stared at her half-exposed breasts.  _Alright, he definitely doesn't have those._

Harry scanned the article. There weren't any interesting information. The paper duly reported the tragic ends of an honourable Death Eater, "Mr. Pettigrew was famous for his generosity and easy-going attitudes—", and of the two brave Aurors, "Their sacrifices saved many lives—". The Department of Peace found the red scarf, spelled to be fire-resistant, that Harry had purposely left behind in a pile of smouldering rubble. As far as the article reported, all evidence was destroyed in the fire; so there was no leads, no clues— nothing—and naturally, that meant the Department had concluded that the Order of Phoenix is responsible.

_Once again._

_The Order of Phoenix is always responsible. For everything. For the ultimate evil._

_This heinous act proves, once again, Lady Tee is a despicable criminal,_  the article concluded,  _a traitor, a terrorist, an agent of the Order of Phoenix. She may be named — wrongly— for justice, but she is evil personified. The only one who can stand against such evil, who can protect us and protect Britain, is our Lord and glorious leader, he-who-saved-magic, our King. Our King will slay the Lady and save us all._

"Fascinating," commented Harry offhandedly, after returning the paper to Tom. Compared to the Daily Prophet, he found his pancakes to be much more intellectually stimulating.

"So, have you heard anything?" asked Harry.

He knew Tom has spies in Ministry, sometimes, with all the sensitive information that Tom held, Harry suspected Tom even has spies in the inner cycle. Harry knew Tom had a little anti-Ministry organization running in the background. After all, the man had lofty goals, so he needs more supporters than just Harry. Although Harry wasn't privy to the details of Tom's organization, as they both agreed to keep Harry's work separate, so he can act as a lone wolf.

_Assassins aren't meant to operate in groups, anyways, it's much too bureaucratic._

Harry did know Tom has quite the influence, though.  _Perhaps, the Order was not who the Ministry should be worried about._

"Hear anything...? About you, my lady?" Tom smirked. "Oh, I've heard many things about  _you_... Entertaining things, especially from Lestrange. But nothing we should be concerned about right now—"

Harry rolled his eyes.

 _Boy, how he hates that nickname_!  _If he ever meets that woman, a reporter named Rita Skeeter, who anointed the name on him, there will be hell to pay._

Tom abruptly changed the topic to academics, once he detected Harry's disinterest. They debated about the limitations of the Patronus Charm, playfully bantering back and forth about the nature of Light magic.

Tom has been oddly nice to him recently. The spirit even seemed cheerful this morning, with his perfect smile and glistening blue-eyes. Something good must've happened, mused Harry, although something good in Tom's books usually meant deadly misfortune for someone else. Harry hoped that someone isn't him.

They concluded their breakfast in a comfortable silence. Harry stood up to leave. When, suddenly, Tom stopped him, one hand on his shoulder.

"There's something on your face," murmured Tom.

Then, Tom leaned in closer—  _too close_ — warm breath fogged Harry glasses. The blonde boy tilted his head, curiously, innocently, before plunging forward suddenly. Their lips locked. The soft, wet flesh tasted salty to Harry and his eyes widened in shock. The redness in Tom's pupil expanded, expelling outward, like the explosion of a red-sun. Harry squirmed against Tom's mouth; the other's magic seeping through their lips, a sweet and flaming darkness, mesmeric and inviting.

Tom's grip was unyielding and firm, so Harry couldn't escape. Something soft and warm pushed against his mouth, tabbing against his teeth, forcing its way through, close, clumsy with needs. Harry stood still, his feet rooted to the floor, clamping his lips shut. Then, a singe of pain, Harry's eyes narrowed as Tom's temper flared. Hard teeth pulled against his lips, sinking into sensitive flesh, demanding entry.

Harry trembled when Tom bit him. It drew blood.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Tom pulled away. Harry's lips felt swollen and hot where Tom had bitten him. A sliver of saliva trailed from his lips.

 _Probably Tom's_ , thought Harry, horrified.

"Taste like strawberry," Tom licked his lips. His thin lip looked red and plump, like ripe berries.

"Don't look so  _shocked_ , brother dear," drawled Tom, as his eyes roved over Harry's stiff body. "We've done this before—  _many_ ,  _many_  times."

"Yes, but—" sputtered Harry. "But we never— I mean— you used ...tongue. I never agree—"

Blood rushed to Harry's face as he rumbled on. His heart beat widely in his chest, dancing to its own strange beat. He felt tense, exhilarated and embarrassed all at once— it wasn't a bad feeling, per se, the adrenaline coursing through his veins gave a similar buzz as to when he was flying or when he was duelling for his life. But Harry despised the way Tom seemed so  _controlled_  in these situations, always; their contact never seemed to affect Tom, never making him blush or leave him breathless like Tom just did to Harry.

"No? You seemed to enjoy it—" Tom's lips twisted up into a grin. His hand remained on Harry's shoulder, pressing down hard, clawing into his skin. "That was excellent, Harry, but we need to do it again. You see, you  _didn't_  response properly... Remember our deal? You still owe me—"

Harry blinked.

Sensations returned to his body.  _Oh, right,_   _he still needs to transfer magic to Tom._  They had made a deal to share Harry magic, as a way to bridge Tom's power through Draco squib body. Normally, their transaction was done weekly, on Monday mornings. But, due to the excitement over the weekend, Harry forgot their little arrangement and it seemed Tom was demanding his payment right now.

"Right," nodded Harry, awkwardly. "I forgot 'bout that. But...hmmm... please do ask for permission next time. Okay, now I... er...  _now_  I'm ready."

Tom stared at him, the smirk still clinging onto his face. His crimson eyes were as intense and enthralling as ever, alight with dark desires — familiar ones like possessiveness and obsession — but also with something a twinge more human, almost uncertain, almost ... like fear.

It was all too much.

Harry shut his eyes when Tom kissed him again. Warm tongue darted against his mouth, dragging along in a painfully slow pace. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

Harry didn't know what possessed him to part his lips, but he did.

Tom's tongue was soft and warm as it explored Harry's mouth, up and down, in and out, filling him, burning, consuming, and demanding in its eagerness. Harry couldn't breathe. His chest heaved. It took a moment for Harry to remember his task. With great difficulty, he focused his magic to the surface and allowed it to pass through their contact. Tom sucked greedily, the magic flowing through their lips — through their bond — until it dissolved, wholly, into Tom and it transformed from light to dark.

Harry didn't open his eyes again until it was over. His gasped involuntarily when he saw those red-eyes. His reason returned, horrified and confused by what had just transpired.

Tom smirked. He was still standing too close. Harry couldn't look at him, but he couldn't look away either. Tom's lips were glossy and red like cheery. The blonde's body was reinvigorated with magic, waves of powerful aura radiated from him, dark and malicious as always.

Tom dragged a thumb across Harry's lips, tracing the heat of the soft curves.

"Make sure you heal that before you leave... You are bleeding," whispered Tom before stalking out the room.

* * *

 

_/PAST/_

Little Harry felt the end of Tom's wand jabbing into his temple. In the orange glow of the candles, by the still silence of the night, he waited for the inevitable. His thin body trembled with fear and anger, but his back straightened, his head held up high, pertinaciously.

"AVADA—" began Tom. Those familiar words brought back so many memories; an overwhelming sense of fear conquered Harry. His legs turned to jelly.

Harry whimpered.

"What's that?" mocked Tom, wand at Harry's temple. "It's not too late to start begging for your life..."

Harry bit his lips, but didn't say a word.

"AVADA—" said Tom again. Suddenly, he began to laugh, a cold shrilling sort of laughter that vibrated throughout the barn. The sound bit into Harry, playing his nerves like hands plucking at a high-strung string, pluck, pluck, until it snaps.

"Just joking," crooned Tom, his voice sounded strangely relaxed but Harry felt, distinctly and clearly, the other's smothering anger oozing from the dark magic that tumbled all around them.

"That was way too funny— Harry, my dear— you should've seen the look on your face! Relax, I am not going to kill you... at least, not yet... I worked too hard to just off you... Oh, NO. You still own me some ... _compensations_."

Harry's leg gave in and he sunk to the floor. There was nothing more dreadful than the short moments before one's inevitable end; that awful anticipation for death— a primal fear ingrained into his consciousness, forever and unforgettably dreadful— weighted on Harry's soul, like a sharp knife swinging overhead, back and forth, ready to drop at Tom's every whim.

 _Death is not that bad,_  thought Harry,  _I'll get to see my parents again._

_Yes, Death is not that bad, but it is the waiting that is killing him._

"I'm not— I'm not afraid of you," whispered Harry. He turned toward Tom. His vision blurred since he still haven't found his glasses.  _Too bad,_  thought Harry absently,  _that was my favourite pair._

Channeling every last bit of his energy, Harry yelled at Tom, defiantly, heatedly, green eyes ablaze with life.

"DO AS YOU WILL, TOM... BUT KNOW THIS— THAT YOU WILL  _NOT_  BREAK ME— AND—AND... YOU WILL  _NOT_  HAVE ME."

Tom did not look pleased with his response. A shadow descended on his face, dark and thick like the veil of death.

"Tsk, tsk. Harry, don't you know that  _all_  this— your struggles, your words— are all useless," hissed Tom. "You are  _already_  mine. Oh, stupid, insolent child, I see you are in dire need of discipline."

" _Bilimanitus_." Tom waved his wand.

Invisible hands closed around Harry's throat, pulling him off his feet, choking the life out of him. Harry coughed, and gasped, and clawed at it, but there was nothing there, only a deadly pressure around his throat, crushing him with brutal indifference.

Harry's eyes rolled back in their sockets. He saw flashes of white lights as the world spun around him, until everything disappeared into the white lights and the brightness was making him drowsy.

If this is dying, thought Harry, it's not so bad.*

Then the hands abruptly released him, dropping him on his back, and the pain came roaring back, in full bloody agonizing force. Spread-out on all fours, Harry coughed as warm summer air rushed his lungs. He gulped and swallowed greedily. White-hot pain clung to his neck

He could hear Tom's soft footsteps and then a dark shadow moved in front of him. *

"Now where were we?" murmured Tom, his voice lingering above Harry. "Oh, yes. Yes, the ritual... Let's finish this, shall we?"

Tom snapped his fingers. Ropes sprung out of thin air and wrapped themselves around Harry, tightly this time. *

Tom waved his wand about, in fluid movements, as he hissed in Parseltongue, the soft words almost disappearing into summer's wind. The diary sat by his foot, the dagger still skewered through its middle, a puddle of ink and blood pooled around it. All around them, the flames on the seven candles danced, flickered, and suddenly exploded into columns of bright blue flames. Tips of the flames licked the barn's decrepit ceiling, and smoke began emitting from some of the beams. Blue lights illuminated Tom's face, casting eerie glow on his boyish features, making him seem older, paler, and less and less human.

A needle-sharp pain seared across Harry's forehead, blood trickled down from the newly-cut wound and it ran to his eyes, so Harry could only see red. As the spell worked and as magic churned, Harry felt Tom's magic— a great power like nothing he felt before— rushing toward him, converging on his forehead, drilling at the exposed flesh, forcing its way through the small opening into his skull. Harry felt like his head was about to split in half. He keeled over in pain, trembling all over, clutching his face.

A sweet hiss filled his head.

 _Let go, Harry, let go of everything,_ it said,  _and give yourself to me._

Harry was falling into an abyss, drifting, overflowing with agony. Then, suddenly, he heard his mother's voice, soft and distant, a chiming of notes.

 _No, Harry, you mustn't give up,_  she said to him.  _We gave everything so you can live._

_So live._

Harry's eyes flew open. Vivid green burned impossibly bright.

 _I want to live,_ he thought.

He thought about her, then with all his might, Harry pushed back at the presence in his head.

"AAAARGH!"

Tom's magic rebounded. The blonde boy dropped his wand and clutched his head, howling with pain. Instinctively, without planning to do so, Harry lunged forward and grabbed onto Tom's face. It felt hot were their skins touched, Tom throttled violently and Harry saw blisters forming beneath his fingers.

Harry held on— the wound on his forehead almost blinded him with pain, and he could hear Tom screaming in agony— the other's magic receded viciously and Harry could think again. On Tom's face, the soft flesh looked burned, raw, red and shiny where Harry held him. *

Harry pushed forward, knocking Tom off his feet, landing on top of him, both hands on Tom's face.

_The spirit had said he hadn't seen colour for fifty years, so he must've not felt pain for fifty years either._

_Pain, so terribly real, and sharp, and intense, and unbearable._

A warm light filled Harry's chest, a sorrowful and regretful light magic that he recognized.  _She saved him once again._  It gave him strength and his purpose became clear to him. Harry looked down at Tom, pinned into the mud by Harry's knees; Tom's face covered with blisters and charred flesh. And Harry smiled, despite the pain.

He knew he had won.

Harry lifted one finger and pressed down on Tom's cheeks, drawing a hiss of pain. Draco's delicate features twisted with anguish, sweat dripping from his face, in drops like tears. Harry felt a ping of sympathy for his brother, but he immediately pushed it aside.

_For vengeance, first he must survive._

Tom stared at him, eyes bewildered and crimson, he almost looked vulnerable, like the friend Harry once adored.

Harry looked away.

"Accio wand," said Harry, attempting the conjuring charm for the first time. He raised his hand toward the wand on the floor.

Nothing happened.

Harry focused his magic. Tom's magic had left a lingering  _something_  in him, a sliver of dark, burning power that latched onto his mind, a sliver of darkness amongst the light, rippling through, like ink drops falling into clear, transparent liquid.

"ACCIO WAND," said Harry again, a ringing force behind his words.

The wand flew to his hand. Harry looked down at the shuddering boy in front of him. He removed his hand from Tom's face, but held it, threateningly, close-by.

"I'm willing to make a deal, Tom," said Harry, breathless, trying to look braver than he felt. "A life for a life. Your life for Voldemort's. Help me kill him and you can have it all... You can have me, afterward. I don't care what happen to me after... but—"

"—But first I will have my revenge. Teach me to fight, to lie, and to kill...And I will work with you, work for you— whatever you want— I am going to kill Voldemort... And you... you ARE going to help me."

Tom stared at him. He seemed to have gotten accustomed to the pain; he turned his expression inward, and hid it, neutral and blank, as his power returned to him. He raised an eye-brow as if impressed by the audacity of Harry's request.

"Well, don't you have a one track mind," spat Tom. " _Fine_... If that's all you desire, then, FINE, I will do it. I want Voldemort dead anyways, so the arrangement works for me. NOW. GET. OFF. ME."

"Not so fast," said Harry, pressing down harder on Tom, so the other boy couldn't move an inch.

"You can't expect me to just trust you. Tom. I'm no fool, I've learned my lessons. I want—" Harry paused "— I want your words. I want an Unbreakable vow... From you. RIGHT HERE. RIGHT NOW."

Tom laughed, and, for a moment, the mirthless sound struck fear in Harry's heart. But, then, when he looked closer, he saw Tom's hands were still quivering with pain.

It was all an act, the spirit's assured confidence, it was Tom's mask, the one he adapted for negotiations, one he used to fool and defeat his opponents, one that help him win, always the victor.  _Too bad Harry held all the cards in this game._

_At least, Harry hoped so._

"That may be a good plan—" drawled Tom. "Off course, reality says otherwise, because, you foolish boy, Unbreakable vow requires a Bonder, a third-party, another wizard. And as you can see, it's just you and me here... Well, us and... Dobby, I suppose, if he still lives—"

Harry paused.  _Er, right... he probably should have thought this through._

Harry racked his brain for an alternative. He tried to recall what he had read on Wizarding vows, which he just learned last week, so the information was still fresh. He remembered the spells: Wizarding Life Debt—not helpful—Creditor Contracts —not helpful— Truth Vows—not helpful—Marriage Oath—definitely not helpful— until he remembered, reading from an obscure old book, about the olden form of the Unbreakable vow, utilized once upon a time, during the middle ages, by warring Lords to bind their knights.

"The Vassalage Oath," announced Harry triumphantly.

Tom's eyes narrowed into slits.

"NO."

"Yes, it is the only way I can trust you, Tom. Swear fealty to me," said Harry clearly, steadily, with a confidence that's so unlike him. "Swear it, swear on your magic, that you'll help me toward my goal. SWEAR IT!... NOW. Or I will... I will kill you."

Harry's voice quivered as the threats left him. He clenched his fist, the wand felt very heavy.  _I'm ready,_  he told himself,  _I'll do whatever that's necessary. Whatever._

Harry looked down at Tom, laying in the mud with Harry sitting on top of him, holding him firm. The other looked surprised. Harry supposed Tom didn't expect him to know that spell, after all, the Vassalage Oath has been obsolete for centuries, and its name had faded from memories. Truthfully, Harry didn't remember a lot about the oath, but all he needs is to convince Tom that he does.

"You are insane," spat Tom, a ravenous anger breaking through his mask. "I am no one's servant. I will NOT bow my head to anyone, not to Death, not to Voldemort, and certainly  _not_  to you."

"Then, I'll kill you," said Harry, as he held his hands threateningly over Tom's face.

"You wouldn't," Tom smirked, the muscles on his burned face pulled painfully, but Tom ignored the burning sensations. "If I die, the Malfoy boy dies too."

"YOU LIE!"

"You know I am not lying, Harry dear." replied Tom, still smirking. "Your brother's life is in my hands, and I could end him — right now—with a simple little thought."

Harry looked down at Draco's burned face, the blonde's normally smooth, pale skin covered in painful blisters, some skin were peeling away, in thin cracks like burnt paper.  _It must've hurt a lot,_  thought Harry. He hoped Draco didn't felt it, because Draco didn't deserve this, that little cry-baby won't hurt a fly.

"So be it," said Harry, his voice shaking. "Draco is dead either ways... I'm desperate, Tom. DON'T PUSH ME."

Harry held Tom's gaze. Red clashed with green, dark with light, neither boy moved a muscle.

The night waned as the silence grew thicker.

"I am not asking you to serve me," whispered Harry. "You are a free man, always are and always will be. I'm not looking to change that... All I want is a little insurance, Tom, a little show of good-will... for our future partnership."

"Well, I suppose there's only one logical conclusion from this," said Tom, his voice deadly calm. "Fine, I will do it. The words?"

"Er?"

"The  _words_?" repeated Tom, with a hint of annoyance. "For the Vassalage Oath... What are your terms?"

"Er," said Harry. He can't seem to recall the exact wording of the oath.

After a moment of silence, Tom sneered, "Do I have to do everything myself? Let me at it, give me the wand."

Harry stared down at Tom; the boy almost looked too relaxed, as he laid on his back, with Harry's legs straddling his hips. The other's damaged face looked increasingly creepy in the candlelight, like a decaying doll, rotting with sinister secrets.

Harry hesitated. "No funny business," warned Harry, adding some strength to his legs and pinning Tom tighter still.

He thrust the wand in Tom's hand.

Instantly, Harry tossed his head back to avoid the green-light flinging toward him. The light hit the ceiling and it exploded, raining splinters down at them. Harry wasn't sure how he knew, but as soon as Tom's hand touched the wand, Harry knew the deal was broken; the spirit's murderous intent was almost palpable. But Tom was weakened, injured.

Harry swung his arms and grabbed Tom's hands. Tom bucked against him, trying to throw him off. The blisters spread from Tom's hands to his arms, in sharp, angry, burning agony. They tumbled in the mud, rolled and wrestled. Tom's body jerked in agony. Yet Tom held onto the wand, his face squeezed in pain. He yelped, and then screamed.

It wasn't just the pain, but also...  _the magic_. The light magic tore through spirit's dark powers; its strangely poignant presence were unfamiliar to Tom, so agonizingly strong, the terrible power of a mother's love.

"SAY IT!" yelled Harry. "SAY IT! SAY THE OATH AND I WILL LET YOU GO."

Tom writhed and screamed beneath Harry's touch. His red-eyes burned with rage, dark and molten as hell-fire.

Those eyes snapped to Harry and in a moment, he made his decision.

"In name... of death, of life, of family, of duty," began Tom, grinding out each word with great difficulty. "I... I, Tom... Riddle, do solemnly swear, by...by honour of my house and by virtue of my magic... thereby pledging my alliance to Harry Potter Malfoy of... House Potter and Malfoy. I swear by thee to uphold my oath to protect him, to train him... and...and to aid him in his future endeavours to kill the Dark Lord Voldemort—"

A silver thread released from the wand's tip and wrapped around Harry's wrist. It crawled up his arm before dissolving into his skin, warm like blood.

"And that you wouldn't hurt Draco—" added Harry.

His hands still pressed into Tom's own, searing the other's flesh, as their magic merged in the air, dark and light, swirling about, churning away, tearing at each other.

"And I swear to not kill Draco Malfoy, the fucking squib heir of the Malfoy house... May our faith be strong. Our bond eternal. And...let...let magic bare witness to this bond."

With that last flicker, the silver thread vanished. The deed was done.

Harry dropped Tom's hands. He stood up, covered with mud from head-to-toe, and backed away slowly.

Something was wrong.

Tom continued to writhe on the ground, blisters spreading to his whole body, like the most terrible fungus infection, determined to consume him. Tom screamed hoarse, his young body flailed pathetically in the mud.

"STOP THIS!" screamed Tom, "ENOUGH! END IT! STOP!"

"I don't— I don't understand," sputtered Harry. He knelt by Tom, helpless, watching the other slowly dying in front of him.

 _Magic_ , light magic, Harry's own magic wouldn't let Tom go, the light power carried with it a singular purpose— it was determined to destroy Tom. It rounded into the holes of the spirit's imperfect and damaged soul, ripping it painfully, grinding it, squeezing out the life from the one-who-isn't-really-alive.

Harry thought about magic, about warding, about that night, about the medium his mother used to parse her magic.

He bit down hard on his wrist, opening his veins.

"Swallow it, Tom, take it in," urged Harry, pressing his wrist to Tom's mouth. Blood poured from Harry and dripped down Tom's mouth, red and warm liquid that held life, that held  _magic_.

Tom drunk it, in hungry gulps, redness staining his teeth. The pain stopped.

Tom rolled on his back and stared at the barn's damaged ceiling, a wooden beam tittered dangerously, right above the dead body. Harry sat down next to him, holding his wrist as blood dripped down his pajamas.

"You  _idiot_ , you have no idea what you just did, do you?" muttered Tom. Blood stained his red lips and his skin was raw with blisters, he barely looked human.

"I know I  _beat_  you," replied Harry heatedly. "And at the moment, that's enough for me."

Tom didn't reply. He summoned the wand and started to cure the burns on his face. Harry watched him work; skins folded and healed on Tom's face, until not a trace of their struggle was left behind.

He frowned.  _Now what?_

The dead woman watched from above, motionless still in her faithful position— the only witness to this singularly extraordinary event— as she may not have known it, in those few short sentences, in this boiling hot summer night, the fate of the world was changed forever.

* * *

 

**Author's rambling:**

***** Adapted from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone and the Chamber of Secret.

Urgh, I hope the kiss scene turned out okay. OMG, that was hard... I rather write more murders.

So I read over the old chapters and noticed a lot of errors. LOL. I wrote 'dairy' instead of 'diary', 'sliver' instead of 'silver', 'wrist' instead of 'waist'... etc... So apparently Harry's rib cage is located on his wrist, because I said so... and Tom was a cow, because I wrote Tom Riddle's dairy many, many times.

Actually, now I think about it...that would a good name for a café— "Tom Riddle's Dairy, $2 Mocha on Tuesdays".

Anyways, I went back to correct some of the mistakes. Hopefully fanfiction/./net doesn't send out e-mail every time I make revisions, 'cause if so, I was being very annoying...

And a huge shout-out to my BETA,  **Krysania**  !

 


	13. Not-a-Chapter

**Not-a-chapter**

Crack piece warning. Mayor Rob Ford: "Don't do drugs, kids."

(Stage direction)

Title: When Harry met Sally

 **Real Title:**   **When Canon!Harry met Forever's-a-Long-Time!Harry**

Author: Coco_Nut (AKA Me. AKA the Author. AKA Me the Author.)

Script for: one act play

(Man and boy stand at center stage, a meter apart, facing the audience.)

Adult Harry: "Hello, I'm Harry James Potter. I am the boy-who-lived, defeater of Dark Lord Voldemort, Order of Merlin first-class, and current head Auror. My lovely wife, Ginny Weasley, and I have three adorable children together."

Young Harry: "Pleasure to meet you, my name is Harry Potter Malfoy. I am a seventh-year student at Hogwarts, the Slytherin Quidditch captain, and wanna-be assassin. I have no idea in Seven Hells what the boy-who-lived is. But I do know that I will become the man who kills Voldemort— Wait—"

(He turns toward Adult Harry.)

Young Harry: "did you say Ginny Weasley?"

Adult Harry (frowns): "Yes. Did you say Harry Malfoy?"

(Both men make a disgusted face.)

Both: "How?"

Young Harry: "You go first."

Adult Harry (shrugs): "There isn't a lot to tell. I suddenly discovered that I love her in my sixth-year. I guess I like red-heads."

Young Harry (cough, cough): "Oedipus complex."

Adult Harry: "Oh? Then who are you with? Cho? Hermione? Luna?"

Young Harry: "Tom, I guess."

Adult Harry (horrified): "Tom who?"

Young Harry (grins): "Tom Riddle. And it's Doctor Who to you."

Young Harry (turns to Coconut, who's hiding backstage): "Who's Doctor Who?"

Coconut (whispers): "Someone from Muggle telly. Now focus on your lines."

Adult Harry (more horrified): "But he is—"

Coconut (shouts on top of her lungs): "SPOILERS! BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!"

Adult Harry (still horrified): "—that's terrible! Not in a homophobic kind-of-way, off course, I have many gay friends, but in a he's an evil, murderous git kind-of-way."

Young Harry (shrugs): "I know."

Adult Harry: "Then, why—"

Young Harry (thoughtful): "Dunno… Stockholm syndrome?"

Tom (yells from backstage): "You ungrateful little— after everything I've done for you!"

Coconut (yells at Tom): "SHUT UP! Did I cue your lines? No, I didn't—"

(Green light flashes. Tom kills Coconut backstage.)

Adult Harry (deadpans): "Charming fellow, I'm sure."

Young Harry (fondly): "Never mind, just ignore him. Say, I wanted to ask you, how did you defeat Voldemort?"

Adult Harry: "Well, it all started that fateful night on the astronomy tower—"

(A single spotlight is lit upon Adult Harry as he narrates his monologue. Cue swelling orchestral music.)

(Half-hour later)

"—and then the curse rebounded toward Voldemort. It hit him and he died. The end."

Young Harry: "… So what you are saying is that you were lucky."

Adult Harry (shrugs): "Hey, I was also very brave…and it worked, didn't it?"

Young Harry: "…Lucky bastard. Oh well, at least I'm not married to a Weasley."

Adult Harry: "Very happily married to a Weasley, thank you very much, with three lovely children— James Sirius, Albus Severus, and little Lily Luna."

Young Harry (deadpans): "Really? James Sirius, really? What unique and original names! You, sir, are the greatest father ever. I'm sure young Albus Severus Potter is the most popular boy in school and lives happily without the burden of the past following his every step. Oh dear, I'm so moved that invisible tears are streaming down my face."

Adult Harry (frowns): "What! You don't like it? I had to beat Ginny three times in rock-paper-scissor to win those naming rights, you know?"

Young Harry (rolls his eyes): "Whatever…"

Adult Harry: "Don't you roll your eyes at me, young man. Now, I want you to listen to me."

(Adult Harry walks over to young Harry and places a hand on his shoulder.)

Adult Harry: "Listen, when I was your age—"

(Young Harry walks away.)

Adult Harry (sternly): "You listen to me, young man. I know boys like Tom, after all he was my nemesis, and I know he can be charming and alluring at times. But he is no good for you. He is a liar and a cheater... And a mass murder too."

Young Harry (yells, choking back tears): "You can't tell me what to do! You don't understand me! And you never will! I HATE ALL–"

Young Harry (stops abruptly and flips through the script): "Who wrote this piece of shit?"

(The dead body of Coconut says nothing.)

Adult Harry (laughs): "Yeah, it is really bad. Say, can I go home now? You know, this is the first year Lily gone to Hogwarts. So finally Ginny and I have some alone time. She said she wants to take me out camping today. She has a thing for outdoor activities, if you know what I mean." (Wiggles brow suggestively)

Young Harry (pales): "In the name of Salazar's fucking wand, please, SHUT UP."

Adult Harry (laughs again): "You know, that's nothing wrong with having a little fun. When you have been married as long I have—"

Young Harry: "AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" (Runs away. He trips over Coconut's dead body and falls into Tom's arms.)

Tom (Eyes turn red. He pulls Young Harry closer): "I think I agree with him. What do you say we go have some fun of our own—"

Young Harry: "What are you talking about—"

(Tom grabs young Harry and they apparate. Cue curtain.)

 


	14. Fan Club

**Chapter 13**

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania**

* * *

 

Harry walked toward the Black Lake. He had Advanced Arithmancy first thing in the morning. Today, they were having an out-door lesson; Professor Michealis told them to meet at the edge of the Black Lake, by the groove of the Three-horned Basswood. As Harry strode briskly, his black leather boots sunk into the damp soil; their hard soles pressed into the carpet of rotting leaves, the last of visage of fall, before — soon — everything will be buried under a white blanket of snow.

 _Winter is coming,_  Harry could discern by the chilling air blasting his face,  _yet another year is about to pass._

Harry was glad Tom wasn't in the same class. Right now, Tom was at the opposite end of the castle, in Advanced History and Culture (a course that Harry duly dubbed— A History of Propaganda). So Harry was alone, which is good, for he needed time to digest what happened this morning.

 _That..._   _kiss!_

 _That... wasn't..._   _normal_. That wasn't like their usual transaction. Normally, Tom loved to bait and tease Harry when they exchanged magic, and Harry knew things— with Tom — were never simple and pleasant, but, at least, he thought he was prepared for everything. Then— then  _THAT_  happened and ...  _it was too much_. Tom was never... so daring... and forward... and  _intimate_.  _That_  kiss was intense, just pure passion and burning desire to consume all of each other; it was unlike anything Harry had experienced.

And it was distracting.  _Annoyingly so._

Harry couldn't stop thinking about Tom's lips pressed against his, warm and velvety and wet—

He shuddered. Then, under his breath, he rapidly tried to recite the Constellation Table and banish Tom from his thoughts.

 _NO, NO, whatever game Tom was playing... You mustn't fall for it_ , Harry told himselffirmly _. We have no time for lies and games._

He rounded a corner, just pass Greenhouse number thirteen, and saw someone familiar— a girl with crazy, bushy, brown hair, hidden behind the unevenly trimmed rosebushes. She was wearing heavy make-up— pale with black lips and darkly lined eyes. Her brown hair was styled with bangs that framed her face, and coloured with purple streaks, with a deep indigo that contrasted nicely with her honey-brown hair. It was a striking look, pale and dark and  _distinct_ , Harry imagined this is how Muggles imagined vampires look like.

Her gold-and-red tie indicated she is a Gryffindor, which wasn't a surprise. After all, it took a lot of courage to dress like  _that_  in Hogwarts, in this most prestigious building where Pure-blood traditions reign supreme. You see, fashion served all but one purpose in New Britain. One's clothes were not meant to reflect one's individual identity (oh no, that would be crass); instead, clothing were meant to be a label, an indication of one's status, a clue indicating how a person should be treated— like a prince or a pauper— depending on their dress. So, in the wizarding world, where conformity is ideal and individuality is sin, there was only one accepted fashion style. The only correct way to dress was to emulate the Pure-bloods, with their properly extravagant robes and impossibly expensive dresses; the only way to be respected is to become rich and powerful and to become one of  _them_.

Although Harry supposed Hermione Granger didn't care what people thought of her, because  _they_  already hated her. Despite her brilliance and excellent grades,  _they_  already labelled her as a useless, worthless  _Mudblood_ , as someone who society will never allow to excel or to prosper. Because Mudbloods are less than real wizards, and so, willing or not, they must be held within their limitations.

Harry sympathized with her, he really did. She was his friend... A truly brilliant witch... one of the few people with intellect to rival even Tom's...too bad society will never acknowledge her talent.

 _What a pity; what a waste... But that's the way life operates_ —

Harry always knew that life isn't fair; he was sure Hermione knew it too.

She took up this particular style sometimes last year. She told him she had seen this look on a Muggle music magazine and thought it intriguing. You see, Hermione Granger had a difficult time during her sixth-year, the year when they chose their advanced courses. Staring at the career options available to Muggle-borns, Hermione suddenly realized how limited was her future... and that everything she had done — getting perfect grades for five straight years and following the rules to the tee— were meaningless in the real world. The realization nearly destroyed her. Then, she rebelled the only way she could.

One day, out of the blue, she busted into the Great Hall with her new look, her face covered by pale make-up and thick eye-liners, with her normally pristine robe covered with metallic studs and chains, and her white knee-high socks replaced by a pair of black fishnet stockings. Scandalized and stunned, the whole student body stared at her as Hermione sat down and ate her breakfast in silence, no explanation offered what-so-ever. Harry thought it was hilarious, the teachers, though, were not so amused.

They tried to force her back into the standardized uniform. In response, Hermione started a hunger strike. It lasted two and half weeks, and turned Hermione into a dazed, wandering zombie. In the end, the teachers acquiesced. Harry was surprised to find out that Snape was the one who vetoed the plan to expel Hermione and gave her the reprieve.  _Probably the only good thing that greasy-haired bastard has ever done._

So the look stayed. And that was how Hermione Granger became famous — or rather infamous — amongst the students.

He was about to greet her when he noticed the four girls surrounding her.

Four young girls. Slytherins, about fifteen or sixteen, with their wands out and pointed toward Hermione. Identical snobby expression shown on their faces, an expression of refined disgust that pure-bloods loved, when they all scrunched up their face as if they smelled something foul right under their noses. Harry mused it was amazing that all pure-bloods can do this face— in unison — perhaps they've practised it together.

"Well,  _Mud-blood_ ," spat a blonde girl with a pony-tail, "does that nasty stuff you put on your face affect your hearing? You know, in addition to being ugly as hell."

The other girls laughed. Hermione remained expressionless. She drew her wand calmly, and turned it to the blonde girl.

The girl took a step back upon seeing the wand.

She continued talking, "Listen, now... this is your last warning. STAY AWAY FROM HIM. GOT IT? I know why you dress like  _that_... you just want  _his_  attention, don't you? You whore—"

Hermione twitched her wrist.

Harry sighed, he better do something before she kills them... or something... He didn't want to wait and end up having to find out.

"Is there a problem here? Ladies?" asked Harry as he stepped from the rosebushes. He smiled pleasantly at the girls.

They gasped in unison. The expression on their faces changed dramatically upon seeing him; all of a sudden, they went from menacing harpies to sweet little girls. Their transformations were so effective and instantaneous, that it'll impress even the most seasoned actors.

"Oh, nothing," replied the blonde girl sweetly. She batted her eye-lashes at him. "We are just talking... just some girl talk—"

"Oh?" Harry raised an eye-brow. "And... wands were so necessary in this...  _talk_?"

"Er...That just a joke," she giggled and nodded to her friends. In response, they tucked away their wands. "No harm done, right?" said the girl to Hermione, the smile stretched so wide on her face that Harry's afraid her jaw's going to snap in half.

Hermione didn't reply, but she pocketed her wand too.

" _Harry_... Can I call you Harry?" continued the girl, between fits of giggles, which was very odd because Harry found nothing of this situation funny at all _._

"Alright,  _Harry_ ," said the girl hurriedly, after getting no response from him. "I don't believe we've been introduced. My name is Wilhelmina Wooster. My cousin is—"

"I don't particular care about your name... or cousin,  _madam_ ," cut in Harry coolly. "All I care— right now — is your rude conducts toward my  _friend_ , which I must confess to be disappointed in... because I expect  _more_  from my fellow Slytherins. For example, I expect from all Slytherins, regardless of age or constitution, to have some basic manners, at least—"

The four girls stared at him in confusion. They all turned toward the blonde girl, who opened her mouth to say something, but Harry cut her off.

"Is there anything else?" asked Harry coldly. "If not, please excuse us. We  _do_  have a class to attend to... RIGHT NOW."

He glared at the blonde girl until the smile disappeared from her face. Wilhelmina bit her lip and nodded to her friends; then they all turned and scurried away quickly.

"So," said Harry as he turned toward Hermione, who stared after the retreating Slytherins with an unreadable expression. "Who are they?"

She shot him a bored look.

" _Your fan club_ —" replied Hermione simply. Calmly, she reached down and straightened her skirt, which has been modified with black laces around the trim.

"Oh, really?" Harry grinned at her, fleshing a row of pearly white teeth. "I wasn't aware such a thing existed... I mean I know I'm brilliant and  _very, very,_  good-looking, but surely a fan club is a bit—"

"Conceited?" dead-panned Hermione, although she managed to crack a tiny smile this time. "Why, off course... But you Slytherins aren't known for your modesty, are you? Harry... don't you know that you and the other Malfoy are very popular with the younger girls? Although I doubt they admire you for your looks... even if it is some  _very, very_   _good looks_ —"

Harry smirked back.

 _Ah, off course, the Potter name and the Malfoy name_ — _the titles of two of the oldest wizarding houses in England_ —  _such prominent names are irresistible to pure-bloods, drawing them in ceaselessly, like moths to flames._

"Even so—" said Harry crossly. His eyes turned serious. "I hope the prats weren't conducting such rudeness in  _my_  name... I'll speak to them, 'Mione. I promise you that you'll not hear from them again."

During the beginning of the year, Harry had already spoken to the Slytherin boys about leaving Hermione alone, and so far, they obeyed. But he hadn't thought it necessary to do the same with the girls, and now... it looked like he should have done that first.

"Hmmm...I can handle myself," mumbled Hermione. "But...anyways...  _thank you_."

Hermione flicked her wrist and, by their feet, the grass came alive. Some green vines slithered and retreated in waves. Upon close examination, Harry noticed that it wasn't grass at all, but a massive tangle of Devil's Snares, crawling silently away from them. They extended from the near-by greenhouse, presumably summoned there by Hermione to use as a trap against her enemies.

_See, Wilhelmina-what's-her-name should thank him. He just saved her, and her little friends, from being strangled by thick bundles of Devil's Snare, which was quite the deadly plant, if one knew how to use i properly... like Hermione clearly did..._

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione gently stroke the back of her right hand and he knew the Gryffindor was not in a good mood.

On the back of her right hand—  _her wand hand_ —there was a large tattoo of a brown sparrow, its head bend low and hidden by its wings as if it was ashamed of itself. This bird— this ordinary, frail creature — was the symbol of Muggle-borns. All Muggle-borns were mandated by the Ministry to get the same tattoo on the back of their right hand, and they must always expose this tattoo whenever in public. It was "for identification reasons", as declared by the Muggle-born Registration Act.

Nothing in New Britain must be left to chance. No Muggle-born must be mistaken for a real wizard, even if they just looked like anyone else with a wand. This  _distinction_  between the magical class and Muggle-borns was ingrained in society, from babies to adults, until everyone realized that, instinctively, that True-borns and Muggle-borns are naturally  _different_... as different as night and day, as black and white, as human and ... almost human.

They were even raised separately. True-borns were raised by their families; while Muggle-borns, because no one wants them, were raised in the Ministry's Orphanages, by the kindness of the Dark Lord's will. These Orphanages were often under-manned and over-budget (according to Lucius, anyways). So, to cut cost, these institutions were mostly ran by Veelas (who, on their good days, actually have pretty passable maternal instincts) and house-elves (whose labour, you know, are free). It was a wonder Muggle-borns actually survive to adulthood with their sanity intact and their social skills functioning.

Officially, it was said that Muggles feared their magical progenies so much that they tried to burn them and the Ministry must step in to rescue "these poor, unwanted babies." However, Harry knew otherwise, because, at some of Narcissa's charity events, he saw some of these young Muggle-borns when they first arrived in the Wizarding world. They were about six or seven, freshly plucked from their parents' embrace. All flabby arms and crying mess, they huddled in a corner as pure-blood ladies gawked at them and cooed over the sad abuse they suffered. Harry saw no sign of such abuse. These kids were — mostly— flushed, healthy, well-fed and  _loved_.

They cried for their mommies and daddies... whom they will never see again, whom they will soon forget, because all orphanages administer memory potions to the newcomers. After all, the Ministry couldn't indoctrinate someone who was loved by a family, who had an identity to hold onto.  _No... That'll not do..._  It was far better for them to forget everything, to forget themselves, and, throughout their lives, to just believe what the Ministry says.

Those kids weren't being rescued, they were being enslaved.

And that was the truth— everyone knew it, but no one spoke it.

Harry eyed Hermione, walking silently beside him, her indigo and brown hair swayed in the winter air. She had told him that she is one of the lucky ones, someone who was powerful enough to be accepted into Hogwarts. The school's reputation should be enough to secure her a future. _A future... maybe not one of equality, but at least one of tolerance._

 _"Perhaps I'll even find something better... Happiness... Love...Change..."_  Hermione had told him, optimism shining through her eyes, momentarily shatters the mask she created with her make-up.

He hoped she does... They were both victims of this cruel world, and Harry felt a kinship for that.

Harry knew it was too late to save himself. Revenge is a double-edged sword, and, in truth, he didn't expect to survive his ordeal. And he didn't care—

_But... Hermione... She's strong. She's better than him._

_She'll find something better._

* * *

 

Harry stood in front of the Headmaster's office, waiting to be summoned by Snape. The letter of regret clutched in his sweaty palm. He had spent an hour carefully crafting the statement, painstakingly checking over everything to make sure it was proper, official... and  _impersonal_. He even sealed the letter with a red wax seal, stamped with the Malfoy family sigil— a white peacock flying towards heaven.

He skipped dinner to work on this thing. So he didn't have to face Tom. Harry was determined to avoid the other boy until he figured out Tom's game plan... or at least until he was ready to speak to Tom without blushing.

The stone gargoyle swirled aside to reveal a staircase. Harry ascended it and stepped into Snape's office.

One thing was certain: of all the teachers' offices Harry had visited so far, Snape's was by far the smelliest. A distinct, bitter medical aroma lingered in the large and beautiful circular room. Harry scanned the crammed bookshelves and file cabinets for potion equipments, but he couldn't find any. Surely Snape knew better than to brew  _potion_ s in this very expensive and most illustrious office space... Hmm... maybe Snape just naturally emit that particular smell.

The room was surprisingly airy and simple, designed with a sterilized functionality in mind, cold and efficient like the man who occupied it. Pale moonlight shone through the large stain-glass windows, casting soft glow on the curvaceous walls, which were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. Books and documents were neatly stacked on rows of metallic cabinets; their cold steel surface gleamed ominously. Harry's eyes naturally drew toward the highest shelves, where the collection of Hogwarts artefacts, including the sorting hat, was on display proudly behind a panel of thick glass. Harry knew those were from Voldemort's personal collection, apparently the man was quite the history buff and an avid collector too.

Harry's shoes sunk into a luxuriant Persian rug. The thick, beige rug covered the office, in its centre, a large green print of the official British seal, the snake-and-skull, was displayed pompously. Harry stepped right onto the snake's head. He forced a smile onto his lips.

Snape stared at him from behind an enormous, claw-footed desk; his lips pressed in a thin line.

"Mr. Malfoy," announced the Headmaster clearly. "How may I help you?"

"Headmaster," Harry bowed his head low and offered his letter, holding it forth with both hands, to Snape. "I have come to offer my sincerest apologies... I realized that I have behaved inexcusably this past Sunday... I am here to make amends... and to accept my punishments."

Snape scrutinized him for a moment longer, before accepting the letter. Harry kept his head low, but felt the prickly gaze on the back of his neck.

"You understand a simple apology will not suffice," asserted Snape, tossing the letter on the table. "You have broken Ministry law by wondering to the Muggle world. I am afraid that such mistakes cannot be simply paved over with an apology... no matter who your family is...  _or was_ —"

Harry bit his lips, but swallowed the retort. He hated it when the potion master talked about his family like  _that_... so  _carelessly_... as if he  _knew_  them.

"I understand," answered Harry quietly.

He tried his best to look guilty, but it was so hard to remain civil in front of Snape. Those dark eyes always seemed to see right through his lies, piercing with the steel gaze of a seasoned soldier, a master at detecting— and destroying— spies. Harry felt so young at that moment, standing in the Headmaster's office, with the Ministry's sigil by his feet, constantly reminding him of the omniscient presence of his enemies.

He unconsciously checked his Occlumency shield and made sure it was intact. Remembering Tom's advice, Harry took a step forward and tried to speak with all the sincerity he could master.

"I understand if... if you feel the need to report me to the Ministry,  _Professor_. I... I've made a dreadful mistake... It was my... arrogance and my ignorance that led me to believe that I was special, that I was exempt from the rules... I thought it would be fun to break the rules, just to prove... just to prove that I can... But since— since then —I had time to reflect... and ... and I have realized that I was  _wrong_. I am already seventeen —I am an adult, I am a Malfoy, and I am a wizard of Hogwarts— and that... that means I  _must_  take responsibility for my actions. So I am here to accept my responsibility. I cannot retread the past, sir, I can only reassure you it will not happen again."

Snape held his eyes for a moment, before sighing deeply, and he pulled open his drawer.

"The Ministry will not be necessary. You are lucky, Mr. Malfoy, for I am a good friend of your...  _father._  I will let this offense go — just this once. So don't let me catch you in such foolishness again—"

 _"I won't._ " Then, Harry added silently,  _let you catch me._

"However, your excursions with the Weasley twins must—"

"It'll stop, Professor.  _Immediately_ ," answered Harry firmly.

Snape didn't look so convinced by his words. The sallow man paused for a moment, seemingly lost in his own thoughts; then a sort of resignation washed over his face. Snape withdrew three books from his drawer and dropped them on the desk.

"I should ask you to stay out of trouble, but such a condition seemed impossible to the Potters," said the Headmaster, slowly as if every word was painful to him. "However, it is my job to look after the welfare of all Hogwarts' students, and that includes...  _you_. Whether you believe it or not, I do have your best interest in mind— Mr. Malfoy — and I am trying to guide you down the right path."

Snape pushed the books toward him, and indicated for him to take them.

Harry's eyes widened.  _He couldn't believe this!_   _Was Snape offering him a truce? Or has the lack of shampooing finally driven the man mad?_

Harry couldn't find the right words, so he said nothing. He leaned forward and grabbed the three books. They were his— the Muggle calculus textbooks, that he had purchased from the Weasley twins, and Hermione's gift— the three books that Snape had confiscated two nights ago. Harry tapped his fingers on the print volumes. They looked undamaged, even the Muggle magazine— the  _funny_  one that Fred gave him — was untouched.

He decided to get out of the office before Snape changes his mind.

"Thank you, professor. I promise your faith will not be in vain—"

A loud popping noise interrupted Harry mid-sentence. A tall, slim figure suddenly materialized in front of him and knocked Harry off his feet.

Black cloak, as dark as the night itself, covered the man from head-to-toe. He had on a thin mask, not a white one like the iconic Death Eater's mask, but a black porcelain mask, flawless and smooth in its curvatures, that poked out from under a fur-lined hood. The man was a head taller than Harry, wiry but sturdy, with a broad shoulder that spoke of authority. Nothing on him gave a clue to his personage, not a pin or a badge or anything  _distinct_  could be found on the gloomy cloak. The man stood silently, a column of fading shadows, well concealed in appearance but accompanied with an undeniable presence, dark and ominous like a predator of the night.

He offered a gloved hand to Harry and helped him off the floor. Harry stared at him curiously.

_Did this man just apparate at Hogwarts? No, that can't be—_

All colour drained from Snape's face. He stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair.

"My lord—" rushed the Headmaster, his face deathly pale. "I — I wasn't expecting you this evening."

Harry's emerald eyes widened. Immediately, he tried to pull his hand free, but the man remained immovable. A small spark from the man's dark, dominant magic leaked through their contact and jumped toward Harry's hand, causing his arms to tremble. The books slipped from his hands.

They plopped onto the rug with a soft thud and flipped open. The thin, glossy Muggle magazine landed on top and opened to a large photo spread. On it, in a sizeable colour print, three scantly dressed Muggle women beamed at them; their tanned, exposed fleshes squeezed into skin-tight bunny suits and their legs tangled together with an awkward eagerness.

All three men stared down at magazine, its plain  _Muggleness_  painfully alien in this pristine office.

A deadly silence filled the room.

"Well, well, well—" said the man, while still holding onto Harry's hand; his voice, a soft hiss that cut through Harry's skin and made the boy shudder. "How very  _amusing_... What  _do_  we have here?"

Harry wanted to laugh as he stared directly into a pair of familiar perilous red eyes.

He wondered if fate do truly hates his guts. And he wondered if he'll go down in history as the first person to be killed by Voldemort — personally — for possession of lewd pictures.

* * *

 

**Author's rambling:**

Ah, Harry, so next time Fred offer you free porn (why does that sound so wrong?), you shouldn't accept it :)

Sorry for the delay! I got stuck on this chapter for some reason... maybe this is what they call  _Writer's block_ , or in my case, Writer's attack of laziness. But, seriously, I did get stuck (I also got stuck on chapter 9, some chapters are just hard to write)... hopefully that won't happen too often.

Anyways, I'm a little concerned about Goth!Hermione... My goal remainsto keep everyone in character —to the best of my ability—so Hermione is goth on the outsider and bookworm on the inside... I just dunno how that's gonna work... Also, since I am too lazy to do research, she'll not be representative of the gothic sub-culture **.**

And a huge shout-out to my BETA,  **Krysania**  !

 


	15. The Dark Lord

**Chapter 14**

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania**

* * *

 

"Your majesty," said Harry numbly.

With some difficulty, he tore his eyes from the scarlet pair.  _Red as blood, just like he remembered._

Harry knelt down on one knee. Reverently, he bowed his head low and kissed the edge of Voldemort's black cloak. The fabric was soft and cold against his lips. Crystals of snow clung to the surface of the black silk, a strange fabric that shimmered beneath the wavering light of the fireplace.

The Dark Lord inspected Harry wordlessly. The slim man's white-gloved hand still held onto Harry's right hand, steadying the boy with the firmness of a parent. Harry felt an unforgivable pressure from the man— a smell of death and power, adorned with magic so dark that it momentarily blinded Harry's senses. The man's power was unspeakably great.

And so, this was the  _king_.

Harry stayed as still as he can, kneeling by the feet of his greatest enemy. Voldemort's gaze felt like needles on the back of his neck. The scrutiny made Harry felt like prey, like a little mouse cornered by a hungry python, with no where to hide and death at his back. At the moment, Harry wanted nothing more then to bolt toward the door, run from this hellish place and never look back. But, luckily, his training kicked in — he had survived this long on deceitfulness and determination... and steely nerves.

He  _was_  not going down for harbouring Muggle porn.

Finally, Harry could not stand the silence a moment longer.

"Your majesty—" Harry began, shakily.

"SILENCE, you fool—" injected Snape vehemently. Harry snuck a look at the Headmaster. He had never seen the man so angry. The Headmaster's normally stoic face was beet red. The man wrung his hands together, as if he was itching to march over and strangle Harry personally. "How DARE you address the Dark Lord so—so  _carelessly_ —Mr. Malfoy. Don't you think you have embarrassed yourself— and  _me_ — quite enough for one evening?"

Snape nodded toward Voldemort. "My Lord, I do apologize for the state of my student. And I apologize for wasting your time. Please allow me to punish him accordingly—"

" _Now, now_ , Severus. Let the  _poor_  boy speak," answered a soft, raspy voice that drifted from beneath the black mask.

The voice sounded light and amused, with a low, velvety tone that commanded a room effortlessly.

"Perhaps  _he_  can provide a suitable explanation for this most particular of circumstances—" said the voice, jauntily with a cruel delightfulness. "—After all, his very life depends upon it."

Voldemort pulled the boy to his feet. And once again, Harry found himself drowning in crimson curiosity. Although he couldn't see pass the flawless, shiny mask, Harry could imagine those thin, pale lips twisting into a grin, like a satisfied cat toying with its prey.

"Regrettably, I cannot, sire," answered Harry firmly.

"Forgive me—" Harry bowed again. He had to stand very close to the Dark Lord, because the man wouldn't relinquish his hand, a fact which Harry found very discomforting. Harry forced a smile as those emotionless red eyes continued to search him.

Harry straightened his back.

"—Sire, I am Harry Potter Malfoy, ward of the Malfoy household of Linton. Regrettably, those items that you see before you ... They do indeed belong to me. Those are the souvenirs from one of my... escapees to the Muggle quarters of London. I got them for a laugh— sire — only as a harmless, foolish joke... But...But I have since then seen the error of my ways. And I realized that I have shamefully disregarded the Ministerial Laws, for which I am ready to accept my punishment—fully—and such...repentance explains my presence here... currently...at the Headmaster's office."

"In addition... I... I deeply regret intruding on your evening. And for introducing such filthy garbage in your presence—"

Harry stared down at the troublesome pile on the floor. He waved his hand and the Muggle books all zoomed toward the fireplace. At once, the orange flames consumed the papers greedily. Harry felt a pang of regret as he remembered the Marauder's map was still sandwiched in one of the books.

Throughout it all, Voldemort only regarded Harry with an unsettling apathy.

Suddenly, the tall man stepped forward. Close. Too close. And every muscle in Harry's body tensed, and snapped, and readied for battle.

" _Harry_ —  _Potter_ —" hissed Voldemort slowly. "Have we met before, child?"

Harry's breath hitched.

_Is Voldemort's testing him? Off course, they have met before_ _— once— at the night of his parent's murder, but never again after._

Lucius never cared enough to introduce Harry to  _his_  Lord. After all, the boy was a reminder of Lucius' once desperation for an heir, and now... since Lucius had his functioning heir, he no longer has any use for Harry. The boy's existence became meaningless.  _Insignificant_. Hidden-away.

_Never much of a note, or a threat to anyone..._

"I don't believe so, your majesty," replied Harry quietly. "Because I would've remembered otherwise—"

Harry hesitated for a moment, but let the words rush out.

"Because, for as long as I remember, ever since I was a little boy — I — I am your biggest fan! Sire. Yes...It's a little embarrassing... but true... The stories of your greatness — the stories of your conquests and your liberation of the magical race— have inspired me, and all of my generation, to follow the one true creed:  _to be great and pure,_  as declared by the great Salazar Slytherin himself."

Harry let his voice tremble with excitement and fear.

"—And yet, my reckless acts have brought shame to the Slytherin name and to both of my houses. My greatest regret is to be introduced to you like this— your majesty— under such dishonourable circumstances. I hope... I hope the future will grace me with another opportunity to prove my worth and loyalty to  _you_ — sire— to you, and to magic, and to our great nation."

While he spoke, Harry held Voldemort's eyes proudly. He let the intense emotions wash over his face, because they were — at least superficially — genuine. The fear, the excitement, the shame, the ceaseless passion fueled by well-concealed hatred, all stretched and bubbled inside him until Harry felt like his mind bursting like a balloon.

_Oh yes, he has dreamed of their meeting ever since he was a little boy... and he has dreamed of plunging a vengeful sword straight through Voldemort's heart... But the Dark King needn't to know that minor detail, needn't he?_

The red, snake-like pupils constricted into a thin line. Harry grimaced when a terrible presence rummaged into his occlumency shield, almost as if a bludger struck his head sideways. The Dark Lord's long bony fingers closed around Harry's wrist, tracing along the pulsing life beneath exposed skin.

The Dark Lord whispered, "Your pulse is racing,  _boy_. Now, is that due to fright or... falsity?"

Harry held Voldemort's gaze. The other's fingers dug into Harry's wrist painfully. But Harry's mind shield stood strong.

Finally, the Dark Lord dropped Harry's hand.

"OH? Inspired... so you say—" hissed the man, as his voice regained its cruel playfulness. The Dark Lord stepped away and instantly, the heavy pressure lifted from Harry's shoulder. Harry let out a sigh of relief.

"Then... I wouldn't want to disappoint to you. CRUCIO—"

Harry screamed.

He convulsed in pain. He fell to his hands and knees, tumbling and trembling against the thick rug. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was... white-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely going to burst with pain; he was screaming more loudly than he'd ever screamed in his life-*

Desperately, Harry clawed at his own body, trying to tear off the invisible knives. He felt the outline of the golden medallion, solid and warm beneath soft cloth.

He clutched it and activated the ward.

Bright, white lights burst from the medallion. Harry's magic exploded from the Ward Key, expelling forward until it consumed the room; and, at once, it broke through the Cruciatus curse. Panting heavily and trembling all over, Harry rolled onto his back. He looked up and met the Dark Lord's eyes, widened with mild surprise.

_Oh shit... Guess the Dark Lord expected absolute obedience, even from the people he's torturing._

Yet Voldemort made no movement to curse him again. Harry hoped one torture curse was enough to satisfy the man, because he couldn't possibly survive another round. Voldemort gave a dismissive nod and gestured for Harry to stand up. With great difficulty, Harry staggered to his feet, leaning against the desk for support.

 _At least he wasn't petrified_.

Luckily, as he had expected, the released  _Petrificus Totalus_  spell wouldn't affect him, because he had created the thing himself— casted it and spelled it by his own magic— and so it wouldn't attack its own master.

Harry's body trembled with agony, which made it hard to remain standing. The only thought that cut through the haze of pain was a familiar jolt of burning anger. Harry's hands closed around the holster of his wand, but he stopped himself.

Once again, he turned toward those cold, scarlet eyes and bowed in submission.

"What is  _this_?" asked the man with a bored tone, pointing to the medallion dangling around Harry's neck.

The Dark Lord cocked his head as he inspected the boy trembling before him. Then, he withdrew his wand and snatched up the medallion around Harry's neck.

Harry coughed. Suddenly, the chain tightened around his neck as Voldemort yanked forward. Its violent movement pulled Harry off balance, and he nearly stumbled into the man. The other's malignant, black magic brushed against him— almost casually inviting — and Harry's senses revolted.

He bit his lips to stop himself from keeling over and puking on Voldemort's shiny, leather boots.

"Well?"

"My... my apologies. Your majesty—" stuttered Harry. He quickly slipped out of the necklaces and moved away from Voldemort.

"It's... It's a... a useful trinket of my own invention... sire. A modified Ward Key... A spell container of sort. A product of my interests— warding and Quidditch— 'bout the only two things in the world that I am good at."

Harry forced a contorted smile, and shuffled further away. He hoped Voldemort didn't notice.

"OH? I don't recall seeing such Keys before." Voldemort held the circular jewellery to the light. Its smooth exterior glistened with magic. A single intricate lily was hand-carved onto the surface of the flatter side.

"True, Sire," murmured Harry. "This is... is a rather unconventional object... I was experimenting with Spell-keeping theories, you see, when I stumbled upon a novel mechanism that proposes to reverse the warding process. So I applied it... And this is the prototype... A bit unstable at times, but... but a useful little tool, I believe—"

Harry kept a careful watch on Voldemort while he spoke. The black porcelain mask prevented him from reading the other's facial expression, so Harry had no way to tell if Voldemort is pleased or peeved or just plain bored.

_Why was Voldemort wearing a mask anyways? Did he suddenly decide to spare the world from his ugly, inhuman mug_ _？_ _Or...or was he hiding something?_

"Hmm...Interesting... These days, it is rather rare for me to see something new," said the Dark Lord.

Then, he pocketed the golden medallion. "You don't mind, do you? Boy—" asked Voldemort in a tone that denied all refusals.

"Not at all," answered Harry cautiously. "I'm honoured."

"Very well," drawled the Dark Lord, as he turned away.

"Warding is a good hobby... Useful, challenging, suitable for a Slytherin. Hmm...Because I'm feeling rather charitable today— and because I have more urgent matters to attend— I  _will_  grant you one chance to redeem yourself. Boy...Listen carefully — I have an  _assignment_  for you. The Ministry is planning an event for Christmas — the fourteenth Commemoration of Victory— to be held here at Hogwarts. And you will assist them... Now, I don't think the Headmaster will mind if the Ministry utilize the service of one of his student? Just for a bit."

With that, the Dark Lord seemed to lost all interests in Harry. He strode past Snape and sat down on the Headmaster's chair. His long, black cloak draped over the chair; its strange constitution seemed to be rearranging around Voldemort, quivering in the windless room like a column of smoke.

" _Yes_ , my Lord," snarled Snape, who suddenly appeared behind Harry. "I will personally make sure that he fulfills every task required of this... this  _internship_... to perfection."

With one hand, the Headmaster pushed Harry's head down to bow again, then he pushed the boy out the door.

"GO. You're dismissed," barked Snape.

He slammed the heavy oak door in Harry's face.

Harry's legs gave in and he sunk to the floor. Still quivering with pain, he laid down on the marble corridor right in front to the stone gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office. The cool marble felt good against his sore muscles. Harry leaned against the oak door, breathing hard and too tired to move.

_What just happened...?_

Amid his own gasping breathing, Harry heard murmurings escaping from the close doors. Hesitantly, he careful pressed his ear to the cleft of the doorframe.

A muffled thud, followed by Snape's voice. "My Lord, the boy—"

"— is amusing, but not important," answered Voldemort, in the same dreadful, low-thrumming hiss that somehow manage to sound louder than anyone's shouting.

"Relax, Severus, my friend. Today is a good day, good for all of us. I come with excellent news." A high-pitched laugh. "Wonderful news— news too good to be damped, even by the interruption of your most  _distinguished_  pupil."

"News?...My Lord?"

"Yes, this is from dear Bella—" a rusting of papers "—You see, our favourite  _lady_  has finally made a mistake."

Harry gasped.

But before he could react, the marble floor rumbled beneath him. The stone gargoyle swirled aside and the floor tilted; it flattened into a slide and dumped him — violently — out onto the empty hallway.

* * *

 

 **Bloopers**   **#4**

*Inspired by  **Shadoween**  and Chapter 12 Author's note.

SCENE: Professor McGonagall and six people (including Tom and Harry) in a brightly-lit classroom.

McGonagall: Welcome to Animagus 101. Now— I trust everyone has obtained clearance from the Animagus Registry at the Department of Unity?

(Everyone nods.)

McGonagall: Good, because Animagus is a highly complicated and dangerous art, and only the most experienced wizards may undertake such a transformative journey. But when you're ready, it is also one of the most rewarding skills to discover— Let us begin—

(She teaches them. Then, after an hour, everyone's ready for their first transformation.)

(***Don't ask me why it only takes them one hour to learn something so complex... I mean, this is just comic relief, okay? )

McGonagall (whips out a notebook): I'll be recording your Animagus form for Ministry records. When your name is called, step up to the podium and morph. And... remember to concentrate on your inner animal.

McGonagall: PERSON A!

(Random Person A steps up and transforms into a golden retriever, furry but with human feet.)

McGonagall: Good, but remember to focus on ALL aspects of the animal. Details do matter.

(McGonagall scribbles down "DOG" in her notebook. Then, with a point of her wand, she returns him to normal.)

McGonagall: NEXT—

(Random Person B walks up and turns into a half-goat creature.)

Person B: b-a-a-h-a-a b-a-a-h-a-a

McGonagall: Good... A goat, I see. That's quite rare, you know ... (She also changes him back.) NEXT—

(And so on...Until...)

McGonagall: MALFOY, DRACO!

(Tom steps up to the podium. His body begins to transform— he grows larger, taller, more muscular; horns sprout from his head; black and white spots appear on his body.)

McGonagall: WONDERFUL! A perfect transformation on the very first try! That's some magnificent spell-work, Mr. Malfoy. Just great magic flow and control, just great...

Harry: ...

McGonagall (writes down): Name: Draco Malfoy. Animagus form: COW.

(Someone snickers.)

Random Person S (the "s" stands for stupid): Yeah, Malfoy, what a perfect cow you are!

(Tom-cow turns toward him. His heavy hooves stomping the floor angrily.)

Person S: MOOOO! Now go get me some milk—

(Cut to Tom-cow trampling him. Its thick hooves flattening Person S' head, leaving a spilled mess of blood, flesh and grey brain matter.)

McGonagall: MR. MALFOY! STOP—

(A flash of red light. Harry stuns her.)

(Everyone screams and runs to the door, which is locked. More screams as the crowd tramples each other as they try to break down the door.)

(***Off course, the door's locked. Don't you wizards watch horror movies?)

(Tom-cow's thundering steps follow.)

(Cut to blood splattering on white walls. Cue Psycho music.)

(Harry watches as Tom skewers a woman with his horn. The enormous creature rises on its hind-legs and wanders around the room with a dead body still pinned to his head)

Harry: ... WAIT, Tom. Are you walking on two-legs? Hmmm... Come to think of it, you are too large to be an actual COW.

(Harry pokes the Tom-cow's abs. Standing up, Tom-cow's body looks very human. Extremely muscular and naked, yes, but human.)

(Tom drops the dead woman. He transform back into a blonde boy.)

Harry (grins): Tom... Good news. I don't think you are a COW... I think you are a Minotaur. Yep—  _Minotaur_  —I've seen that creature before, from a picture in  _1000 Beast and Where to Find Them_.

Tom: ... Off course, off course. I knew I couldn't be a... a  _cow_.

(They survey the blood-splattered room. Torn limbs, spilled guts and mushed brain bits are everywhere.)

Harry (cheerfully): Well, Tom. COWS or not, I think you over-reacted a bit...just a tad.

Tom: ...

Harry (sings): Yep... Even if you are a COW. That would be ok, because I would love you anyways.

Tom: ...

Harry (giggles): In fact, I think COWS are wonderful creatures, Tom. They provide us with steak, and milk; they are even sacred in parts of India, you know—

Toms (eyes twitch): STOP SAYING COW!... Let's never speak of this again. NEVER!

Harry (pulls out his wand): Okay. Okay. So... You know any good cleaning charms?

(The next morning, McGonagall wakes up in an empty classroom. She has a terrible headache and she can't remember how she got here.)

(She looks at the notebook in her hands. There are only two names on her Animagus class registration list.)

McGonagall (to herself): Why is the word COW crossed-out?

* * *

 

**Author's rambling:**

Sorry for the delay everyone... School just started and it sucks (up all my time).

And a huge shout-out to my BETA,  **Krysania**  !

 


	16. The Ministry

**Chapter 15**

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania**

* * *

 

Harry straightened his tie after emerging from the fire-place at the grand Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, Snape's instructions clutched in his hand.

The Headmaster had summoned him on an early Saturday morning, and informed him that Voldemort's secretary wishes to see him. Snape told Harry that he will be serving out his detention by working (between his classes, off course) for Voldemort's office during the next two months.

"And if you should fail to execute any of your given tasks— big or small— to perfection," threatened the Headmaster in his usual dour drawl, before shoving Harry into the fire-place. "I would be more than happy to assist by cutting off your hand and mailing it to his Lordship with a note of apology, written in your own blood. So...behave, boy. Understand?"

_By Salazar, why does that man hate him so?_

Harry sighed. He can't afford to make more enemies. He had spoken to Tom about the curious conversation he overheard between Voldemort and Snape. After which, they both agreed to stop their  _extra-curricular_  activity for a while, at least until Tom received some concrete information from his spies.

He didn't tell Tom about the Cruciatus, though. For some reason, Harry didn't think Tom will take that particular revelation well.

The spirit has been oddly protective of him lately. With Harry, Tom has been ...touchy, possessive, and... affectionate even. Their relationship was... weird lately. Intense, more so than normal. Oddly titillating perhaps, although Harry did not dare to move any closer to the dark spirit, no matter how... persuasive Tom can be.

Still, Harry suspected, judging from the silent rage in Tom's eyes, Tom knew exactly what happened with Voldemort.

But, luckily, Tom didn't press the issue. He only made Harry promise to behave. To stay away from trouble. To avoid Voldemort's attention at all cost.

It was good advice. But Harry can't agree to it.

As Sun Tzu so wisely wrote, 'keep your friends close but your enemies closer'. After all, one cannot catch fish without some bait.

And Harry didn't mind being bait. As long it was on his own terms, off course.

Harry stopped in front of the stone monument, impressively tall with its columns spanning to the ceiling, set in the middle of the circular Atrium and gazed up at it.

A gigantic statue of black stone dominated his view. It was rather frightening, this vast sculpture of a witch and wizard sitting on ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry workers toppling out of the fireplaces below them. Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue were the words MAGIC IS MIGHT; MIGHT IS MAGIC. Harry looked more closely and realised that what he had thought were decoratively carved thrones were actually mounds of carved humans: hundreds and hundreds of naked bodies, men, women, and children, all with rather stupid, ugly faces, twisted and pressed together to support the weight of the handsomely robed wizards. *

 _Muggles_ ,  _in their rightful place._  Harry grinned.  _Subtle._

There were seven golden arches that lead out the Atrium. Five for each of the Departments, one for the executive office and one for the chamber of Wizengamot. The seven departments were kept separate and buried deep in underground London. The only places they converge was in the grand Atrium, right at the foot of this monument, where streams of wizards and witches rushed about like ants crawling in their crowded nest.

Harry surveyed the arches. The five Departments were easy to recognize. High above each corridor, the names of their destinations and the mottos that each pertain were curved into stone wall in large, bold letters.

For the Department of Plenty, the motto "LESS IS MORE; MORE IS LESS."

For the Department of Peace, "WAR IS PEACE; PEACE IS WAR."

For the Department of Truth, "IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH; STRENGTH IS IGNORANCE."

For the Department of Unity, "FREEDOM IS SLAVERY; SLAVERY IS FREEDOM."

For the Department of Love, "LOVE IS AUTHORITY; AUTHORITY IS LOVE."

Harry knew these mottos by heart. As did  _everyone_. Because in New Britain, propaganda  _is_  education. And, if the unquestioning loyalty and adoration for Voldemort have not been bred into the new generation already, they sure as hell as going to beat it into you.

Harry stared at the corridor facing of him. Above its arched gateway, there hang a ten-foot tall painting of a familiar face. A face made-up of inhuman features, skeletally thin and skin as white as chalk; eyes the colour of blood, and snake-like with black pupils that constrict into a vertical line. Its thin, pale lips curled, as it sneered down upon his subjects, who cowered as they scurried pass the gateway, with their heads down, as if a mere misstep would trigger, down on their feeble heads, the wrath of the King.

A face... so familiar as if it crawled out from nightmares. From Harry's nightmares.

Harry looked at the note in his hand, sighed again and walked to the corridor beneath the gigantic painting, as Voldemort's red-eyes seemingly following his every step.

* * *

 

Harry was received by a young woman with a blonde pony-tail, dressed neatly in a standardized Ministry black robe. He handed her Snape's note, after which she gestured for him to sit down by a row of leather sofas that lined the walls.

Harry nervously glanced around the room, half-expecting Voldemort to pop-up from behind a plant pot, then Crucio him again.

Opulence was suspiciously absent from the room. The outer wing of Voldemort's office was sleek and modern— and simple —with brightly-lit lights bouncing off wooden walls and few monochrome furniture. So plain and boring that Harry could almost imagine all the colourful things Narcissa can spew about its designer.

Then again no one ever complained to the Dark Lord about his decor taste, probably... Even if it was terrible.

"Alright, Mr. Malfoy. Everything seems to be in order here," announced the woman cheerfully. "And yes, I was expecting you today. I have your assignment, right here."

She handed him a heavy parchment scroll. The large Ministry of Magic wax seal centered on its length, blood red against white pages.

"Thank you, Miss—?"

"Miss Talberry," she smiled. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy."

Then, she just stood there, smiling sweetly, and stared at him. Harry blinked and stared back.

"Er...Right...Are you the Dark Lord's secretary?"

"Oh, no. Mr. Malfoy," replied Miss Talberry pleasantly. She was quite pretty, tall and tanned, with a dimple on her left cheek. "I'm no one of  _that_  importance. I'm the secretary of his secretary. Don't get to see his lordship all that often, I'm afraid—" she winked at him. "—and you're suppose to open that. Read it. And let me know if you have questions."

"Er...Right," said Harry as he crack open the scroll. Then, without meaning to, he continued. "Is...is he always so scary?"

She stared at him a little longer until Harry turned beet red. Then, she burst out laughing, a very pleasant, normal chime that, strangely, helped calm Harry's nerves. The parchment stretched out in his hand, and Harry began inspecting it carefully.

_It seemed that he wouldn't have to face Voldemort after all._

_Harry couldn't tell if he was relieved or disappointed._

"Do you speak your mind always? Mr. Malfoy," teased Miss Talberry. "I would imagine that... being from such a prestigious pure-blood family... they would have bred honesty out of you a long-time ago."

"Half-blood, actually," replied Harry without looking up. "I'm adopted. Although if you were implying that I lack the proper social tact required of a Malfoy, Miss Talberry, I'm sure Lucius would agree with you whole-heartily."

"Not that I give a hoot about Lucius' opinion," continued Harry, his eyes moving over the parchment rapidly.

"Hm... So my duty is to be... fact-checking? The assignment consists of cross-referencing the event planning for the Commemoration Dinner with Ministry guideline and regulation... Presumably, the event planning has already been completed, then? And... What?... You want me to go through the law books to make sure every detail has been checked-over?... Tedious work, for sure, but not too difficult. I'm sure I can handle it. But... But does that mean the Ministry plans on sending me the details for the Commemoration Dinner. ALL the details?! I mean... Really? That's rather reckless... Since— a lot of important people are expected to attend, aren't they? Like all department heads, diplomats, and even the king himself. So security... must be the primary concern in such plans. It also must be a pain to deal with... And complicated... And  _classified_."

"Hm... Thus, surely— I mean, not that I expect an explanation, but— Why exactly does his Majesty wish to entrust such sensitive information to  _me_?"

As soon as the words let his mouth, Harry realized something was wrong. He had not intended to say his thoughts out loud. And his brain had never frozen so much in front of a pretty girl. Harry breathed a deep breath. Against his back, the sofa's soft leather felt warm, and tickling.

He jumped up.

"Ah, I see why he likes you," chuckled Miss Talberry; her smile unswerving and her eyes beautiful in their piercing, steely blue. "His lordship always appreciated intelligence. You noticed the truth charm on the sofa, I presume...? Not a very powerful spell, I'm afraid, easy to resist once you notice it's there. Too bad though— honesty is so much funnier, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Not from my experience," answered Harry cautiously.

It was true; now he knows where to look, Harry felt the light magic lingering on the creamy sofas, a faint presence; weak enough to be inconspicuous but strong enough to be suggestive.  _Simple. Sometimes the simplest plans are the most brilliant._

"Is that all, ma'am?"

"Yes, all your assignment details are there," she pointed to the scroll in his hand. "The complete sets of Tomes of Wizarding Laws and Ministry Regulations can be found in Hogwarts library, from which you're expected to draw the comparisons. Like you said— it's just clerical work. Shouldn't be too difficult for a bright Slytherin lad... As for the reasons— Why! My dear— I haven't faintest the clue. His lordship works in most mysterious ways... And I'm just a sectary's sectary."

"Although," grinned the young woman, the plastic smile seemed to have imprinted on her face forever. "Mr. Malfoy, a piece of advise— better watch your tongue around his lordship. Stronger men have died for less."

"Good-luck," she called, as she sent him out the door. "Oh, one more things...I'm afraid the plans are rather detailed and lengthy. I'll be sending the rest of the scrolls by owl— All  _thirty-one_  of them."

* * *

 

_/Past/_

A week had passed since the incident at the barn with Tom, Dobby, and the dead woman, yet young Harry couldn't believe how little things had changed.

The Malfoys had returned from their vacation, and looked slightly tanned (which just mean they turn a shade mildly darker than ghastly pale, similar to the colour of old parchment paper). Narcissa had been very angry to find that their "empty-headed harlot" of a governess quit suddenly and left "her poor babies to fend for themselves in this barren hole."

Then, things just sort went back to normal. Lucius disappeared into his role as the workaholic absentee father; Narcissa as the dotting but equally busy mother; Draco...no...  _Tom_  as the spoiled but insecure young heir; and Harry as the outsider. It was amazing how great of an actor Tom is— he played the role of a bouncing, naive little boy so well that he fooled even the boy's own mother. Sometimes, as Harry stared at Draco hanging off Narcissa's wrist while begging her for a new broom, he couldn't find a trace of the dark spirit in the blonde boy.

The boy just acted so much like Draco... So much like his brother that it hurts...If it wasn't for the newly-acquired lightening-shaped scar on his forehead, Harry could almost convince himself that night never happened.

Expect it  _did_  happen.  _The oath, the murder, the ambitions that have been planted_. Harry knew he could not return to being a helpless little orphan, one that submits to his parents' murderer in exchange of a vacant lie of a life.

No— Not after he had  _glimpses_  of  _real_  power. Through Tom's power, Harry saw  _glimmerings_  of the means toward his impossible goal.  _Glimmerings_... Almost like  _hope_.

So Harry was determined to convince Tom to be on his side. Too bad Tom spent all week avoiding him, until —

Until Harry's opportunity finally came, although... not in the way he hoped.

Harry awoke, lying on his side. His face pressed against the cold marble floor. A blind-fold covered his eyes and his arms tied behind his back. The young boy wiggled his arms. The knots were tight, he couldn't move a muscle.

Harry sighed.

"TOM," shouted Harry into the darkness. "Stop being so overly dramatic. I  _get_  it. You're scary. I'm powerless. Oh, spare me the game. For it has been done before—"

Only silence answered.

"TOM," Harry tried again, carefully evening out his tone so it doesn't seem angry... well,  _too_  angry. "Since I already know it's you... COULD YOU TAKE THIS BLOODY THING OFF ME?! YOU ARSE—"

The blind-fold was suddenly yanked off him and Harry squinted into the candle-lights.

"I should've gagged you instead," murmured Tom. His red-eyes glowed vividly in the darkness.

"Hello, brother dear," greeted Tom, causally as if they were chatting by the dinner table. The blonde-boy stood in the middle of a dark room that Harry did not recognize, with scattering of books and candles floating around him. "Lovely to see your spirit so lively. Annoyingly so, as always—"

"Why can't you just talk to me like a normal person," grumbled Harry. He tried to stand up, but his feet were numb and he tripped.

Tom caught the boy before he hit the ground. He pulled the boy back against his chest, holding him tight. Their shadows wavered in the warm candle-light, body against body, two elongated shades that merged into one.

The spirit's touch was cold, like the embrace of a dead person. Harry shivered inadvertently.

"Scared?" Tom smirked.

"Not at all," Harry tried to shake the other off, but Draco's thin arms were surprisingly strong. "Why should I? You can't hurt me. The oath—"

"Ah, the oath," whispered Tom, as his lips brushed against Harry's ear. The spirit's breath was also cold, chilling in its lifelessness. Harry felt his knees go weak, so Tom held him tighter.

"The Vassalage Oath... A curious piece of old magic. I must admit that I was surprise when you first demanded the oath. Old Magic.  _Imagine that_. Off course, only a silly little boy in his desperation would dare to dabble in something which he does not understand."

"What! I—"

"Shhh," soothed Tom. The spirit raised one finger and put it very close to Harry's cheek.

"It's rude to interrupt, Harry, love. Listen... It's true you surprised me that day. I must congratulate you on that... Not many grown men managed to faze me so. You see, brother dear— I miscalculated. Old Magic. Love... HA! I'm afraid I overlooked an important matter... Your mother died in the attempt to save you— and unwittingly provided you with a protection I admit I had not foreseen... I could not touch you." *

Tom laughed, a humourless sound that echoed in the room. Harry felt his magic flare in anger, but he forced it down.

_No, not yet. He still needs Tom. He must do as the spirit says if he wants Tom's help. Submit himself. Because...now... only his goal matters._

"Silly mistake... And it almost cost my life," continued Tom. "Such pain... Pain beyond pain. Aaah, I always knew love was a most terrible thing. But... thanks to you, my friend, thanks to your blood, I survived. Now, as I held your blood within my— brothers bonded by blood... oh, the irony — so now the lingering protection your mother once gave you also reside in my veins too... Now... I can touch you— "

Harry felt the cold tip of the slender finger stroke his forehead. The lighting-shaped scar burned and Harry thought his head would burst with the pain. He screamed. Tom laughed softly in his ear, then took the finger away and turned Harry around to face him. *

For a moment, all Harry could focus on was the glowing scarlet eyes, as he could see his own face reflected in them, pale and feeble, childish.

"Oh look, you're bleeding," Tom pointed to Harry's forehead. "So sorry—" before Harry could blink, Tom leaned in and licked the blood from his cheek. "There— all better," the blonde grinned, blood stained his lips.

"Where are we?" asked Tom. "Right, the oath. Clever trick, at the time. But... you made one critical mistake, Harry."

"You see... You should've insisted on formulating the terms of the oath yourself. Words are always up to interpretations, boy, and thus, so are oath... So while it is true that I swore to protect you... I never state to what extend... Thus, say if you had an  _accident_  — even a fatal accident — during my physical absence, I'm sure the terms of the oath remain satisfied... Regardless if you lived or died. See... With promises, there are always loopholes. That's why the Vassalage Oath has fallen out of favour... For it was highly— and I mean highly— unreliable. Well, that, and due to the death of honour—"

Harry stared at Tom as the spirit spoke. His small body trembled with rage and dread, but Harry tried to keep his face neutral. He mustn't give Tom the satisfaction of seeing him so shaken. Harry berated himself for feeling hurt, for feeling betrayed, because he should've expected this. After all, the spirit himself warned Harry against trusting others. And yet, somewhere deep in his subconscious, Harry still held out a thread of hope for Tom Riddle, the boy who lived in a diary, the boy who was the friend that he so desperately needs.

_But, in the end, hope, not death, is what will destroy the strongest wills._

_Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. Never again,_ Harry thought to himself _, never again shall I open my heart to anyone. Never._

"Why?" asked Harry quietly.

"Why?" repeated Tom.

"Why do you want to kill me, Tom?" snapped Harry. Harry felt his magic crackling around him and his fear receded. He looked up, right into the ruthless redness of the other's eyes. He held Tom's gaze defiantly."I've offered my service to you. And I meant it. I'll do whatever you ask...  _Whatever_. What more do you want, Tom?"

"Tempting," said Tom after a moment of silence. He leaned into Harry, his eyes capturing the other's face hungrily. Tom licked the blood from his lips. "Oh...Oh, very tempting. Such beautiful eyes. Such fire... Would be a shame to see it die, I'd imagine. But... No... You see... Harry, potential is like fire. It's always dangerous... even in the form of a thin, poor, little orphan."

Tom pressed his cold lips to Harry's ear, and whispered, tenderly.

"Sorry, love— I'm afraid that I just... I just can't spare an enemy who had beaten me... However fluky the victory—"

With that, Tom pushed Harry to the floor. Harry tried to kick and fight, but, with a snap of his finger, Tom summoned a large viper, which wrapped its cold body around Harry and over-powered the boy easily. The snake was huge, with spiky green scales and hunger yellow eyes. Its muscular body tightened around Harry like an iron cage, pinning the boy to the floor.

Tom began walking toward the door. He hissed, " ** _Aritimussss, my pet_**.  ** _Take care of the boy for me. Once I leave the room, usssse your venom to kill him. But... Ah...Do it quick."_**

 ** _"Yes, masssster,"_**  the snake bobbed its head at Tom and slithered around Harry. Its scaly body coiled tight against Harry's rib cage. The pain snapped Harry out of his stupor.

" ** _You fucking COWARD,_** " screamed Harry at Tom. He writhed on the floor, desperately trying to get loose from the viper. In his anger, Harry didn't even realize his words turned into hisses that swept through the room like wind.  ** _"At leasssst have the fucking courtesy to DO your own dirt deeds yourself, you filthy LIAR!"_**

The viper rose up and blinked stupidly at Harry. " ** _Massssster_**?" it hissed.

Suddenly, Tom halted. He turned around, eyes focused on the boy thrashing on the floor.

" ** _What did you saysssss?_** "

* * *

 

**Author's ramblings:**

* Adapted from Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows and Goblet of Fire. The government stuff is from 1984. Thanks Jo and George.

**_Parseltongue_ **

Sorry for the hiatus. I had school and work and life... but then again don't we all?... So it's just more excuses... and I'm sure no one's interested in my grumblings, so I'll end it here.

And, as always, a huge shout-out to my BETA,  **Krysania**  !

* * *

 

**Not-a-blooper**

Tom: Fuck, why are you so hard to kill?

Harry: (:P) Indeed, I bet Canon!Voldemort wanted to ask the same thing.

Tom: Yes, but why?

Harry: Because I'm the main character, that's why. You see, there's a reason that these books are not titled "Tom Riddle and the Massacre of Muggles".

Tom: ... Fuck you.

Harry: (:o) Now, that's not very nice. Anyways, why do you always tie me up?... Are you into BDSM or something?

Tom: ...

Harry: (;D) Hey, I don't judge. Live and let live, I always say.

Tom: Oh? So...you want to know about my personal life?

Harry: (nod)

Tom: (smirk) There's only one way to find out— Come here. I'll  _show_  you.

Harry: (O_o)

Tom: (evil smirk)

Harry: ... (run-away)

 


	17. Potion Class

**Chapter 16**

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania**

* * *

/Past/

" _ **What did you saysssss?**_ "

In a second, Tom was on him. The blonde boy sat on top of Harry's chest, peering down at Harry with Draco's large blue eyes. He leaned forward, until they were almost nose-to-nose and Harry could smell the mintness of the other's breath. The spirit's cold hands enclosed around Harry's neck, fingers tabbed against his racing pulse, pressuring the young boy into utter stillness.

" _ **A parselmouth, how could I've misssssed this**_?" Tom whispered into Harry's ear.

" _ **What?**_   _ **I'm not a**_ _ **—**_ _ **"**_  replied Harry confusedly.

" _ **Sssssilence**_ ," Tom commended. " _ **I need to test sssssomething**_."

Tom lifted his wand and jabbed at the lightening-shaped scar on Harry's forehead.

Harry's head busted with pain. The scar burned as if struck by hot iron. The pain was familiar, similar to that night when Tom's magic tried to drill into his head. Except this time, it felt like something is trying to break out of his skull. Harry thrashed and screamed, but Tom's hands held firm.

Harry's mind was slipping. In the haze, he thought he heard a voice inside of his head.

" _ **Oh, ansssswer me. Dear precious, lost soul. Are you mine? And mine alone?**_ —" it seemed to whisper, a sweet and poisonous sound that engulfed Harry's senses. The pain was overwhelming. Through his struggles, Harry tried to catch a glimpse of Tom's face, and saw anger and shock— and... and was it worry?— reflected on the spirit's young face.

Harry faded into blackness.

* * *

/Past/

When little Harry came to, he was back in his own bed, lying under a warm duvet and changed into his pyjamas. Tom sat by his bed-side, staring at him with an unwavering intensity, just like he used to do when he was no more than a memory fading in and out of the diary. His eyes were back to their normal blue, and momentarily Harry thought the child could've been Draco. Then, the boy smiled at Harry and Harry sensed the dark, boiling power beneath the facade, and reality came crushing back.

They stared at each other for a moment.

"I changed my mind," announced Tom casually. "I'm  _not_  going to kill you, Harry. Not now that I know you're a Parselmouth. Slytherins don't tend to off family— unless there are great benefits, off course. And I do believe we can... benefit greatly from each other."

Tom scooped closer. Harry's mind had not quite recovered from the shock, so he didn't resist as Tom climbed into the bed and wormed under the duvet, where it was warm and comfy. Their legs touched and Harry shuddered at the coolness of the other boy's flesh. A condescending smile tagged on Tom's pale lips. He pushed Harry's head against his shoulder and petted the dark-haired boy on the head, like he was a dog.

"What do you say, brother dear? Friends again? " smirked Tom. "Good boy."

Harry stared blankly, as Tom's cold fingers combed through his wild curls. His heart beat, faster and faster, with each tug of the other's fingers. Harry wanted to push the other boy away, to tell him that they can't go back, that Tom was scaring him with his false friendliness and calm steeliness, but he was too exhausted to fight—

So he just stared down at the duvet in front of him and sat there, quietly, like an obedient dog too terrified to meet its master's eyes. Tom petted him slowly, in a gentle and reassuring rhythm, and began to hum Harry's favourite lullaby. The spirit's soft, childish singing was mesmerizing. A dizziness clouded Harry's mind.

After a while, before Harry was about to drift asleep, Tom spoke again.

"I'll take your silence as a yes, then— Go to sleep,  _sweet child_. We'll speak in the morning—"

"WAIT! WHAT—THIS IS ABSURD!" Harry suddenly shot up. The movement jerked him awake and the dizziness vanished. He couldn't believe he was about to trust Tom again.

_Why doesn't he ever learn?!_

"YOU CAN'T JUST... you can't just try to kill me one minute and pretend to be my friend the next—"

"Oh, I'm not pretending to be anything," whispered Tom, his warm breath tickled against Harry's ear. "I consider all the enemies of my enemy to be my friend. Harry, if you prove you can follow orders, I believe you can be  _very_  useful... Let's stop fighting amongst ourselves. Instead, focus that wrath on Voldemort... You want his life, I want his kingdom. I think we can work something out."

"But...why the sudden change of heart?" ask Harry. He tried to roll off the bed, but Tom's hands found his waist and held him down against the soft bed sheet.

Harry swallowed. He knew he was trapped.

"You are a Parselmouth, Harry—" As if sensing Harry's discomfort, Tom held Harry tighter against his chest. Tom spoke softly, in a soothing whisper that the spirit once used to wake Harry from his nightmares, except this time... Harry was already awake and Tom was the nightmare.

Tom continued.

"— Parselmouth is a uniquely Slytherin bloodline trait, which means your are family... Which means you are connected to me— in more ways than you could imagine. As the head of the Slytherin household, I do believe I have a duty to preserve our bloodline. After all, it is already  _dangerously_  thin. Upon reflection, I do believe I overreacted, dear child. I got caught up in my emotions. The Valassage Oath— you see— angered me. I  _despite_  being subjugated...  _So_... so the oath was— IS— _disrespectful_... But I understand that's not your implication... And moreover, one insult is not punishable by death."

Tom's grip was like steel. Harry squirmed uncomfortably. The other's skin was unnaturally cold.

"But the oath also presented to us an important opportunity. It revealed our connection, Harry. And, luckily, I made the discovery in time... Or I would have lost something very precious to me. "

Tom finally released his hold, so Harry could turn to face at him. Harry was surprised to see Tom staring at him intently, with an unrecognizable hungriness spilling from those cold blue-eyes. The flickering emotions seemed eerily familiar, but Harry couldn't find the right words to describe it.

"Connection?" repeated Harry.

"Yes," Tom grinned. "A  _soul bond_  was forged the night the Oath was sworn— And so... Now... we share the closest connection possible between two people."

Tom must've seen the confused look on Harry's face, so he explained.

"Harry, you and I, we  _are_  special. We've shared blood. We've shared magic. We've shared minds. Now we've shared  _souls_. Soul bond is the ultimate pact of trust between two compactable wizards. Thicker than blood, stronger than marriage. Soul bond binds by magic... and magic  _never_  lies... I didn't believe it was possible for me to make such a  _human_  connection. But I'm glad it did —Harry —for such a development may prove most useful."

Harry's confusion only deepened.

Tom chuckled.

"Let me show you. Hold out your hand."

Harry did as told. Tom rested his hand softly on Harry's palm, their fingers intertwined. Bits of dark magic leaked from Tom's fingers. It prodded at Harry's skin, like a playful jib of a schoolmate, until Harry's own magic responded. The two powers tested each other— dark against light, churning lava ripping through depthless waters, attacking and shielding. Their presences yearned out, danced around each other, and mended into one.

"What do you feel?" asked Tom.

Harry gasped, "Our magic... they are the same."

" _No_ , not the same. But belonging together... Tell me—" Tom smiled at Harry, a dazzlingly bright grin. "Do you feel any different since that day?"

Harry thought about it for a while. Then something clicked in his head.

"Was that your voice in my head?"

" _ **Yesssss**_."

Harry was startled by a hiss come from the back of his head.

Tom smiled again, blue-eyes sparkled triumphantly. He put a finger on Harry's lips and made a sign for him to not speak.

Harry closed his eyes and focused on the snake-like voice.

 _Tom?_  Harry thought.  _What's happening?_

" _ **Hello, brother dear**_ ," answered the voice lazily.  _ **"This is the soul bond. Strange, isn't it? But not bad**_ —  _ **I'll have to say, your mind's lovelier than my own... Warm, naive and a little empty, but I can work with it.**_ _ **"**_

The voice seemed to grow stronger as Harry tried to focus on it. Remembering his Occlumency lessons, Harry tried to clear his mind and sifted through his thoughts. There, somewhere hidden in a cloud of haziness, he felt it— a speck of dark magic, as familiar as the warmth of the diary's pages beneath his fingers.

A million questions swirled in Harry's head. But before Harry could formulate any of them, his honest thoughts came out.

 _You're lying, you are always lying_. Harry thought bitterly.  _Once you get what you want,_   _I know you will leave me, like you did, Tom._   _I know it._

 _ **"This issss different,"**_ it hissed, bubbling with an unsettling delirium, because it knew that it finally had Harry's full attention.  _ **"You are a part of... me. How can I harm what issss mine?**_  — _ **"**_ And suddenly, the dark speck ignited, a swirling mess of desire and thoughts, as it rammed into Harry's Occlumency shield.

Harry blanched. His own magic leashed out at the indiscernible presence in his mind.

They clashed and shuddered. The murky presence emitted a wave of dark magic, which carried Tom's emotions. Harry felt it — a true delightfulness coloured by obsessive hunger, but also warm protectiveness and possessive yearning— floating through the soul bond, a tsunami of power and wants and  _promise_.

" _ **Mine, mine, mine**_ —"It kept on saying, and the voice overwhelmed Harry's mind.

Tom's magic was intoxicating— intoxicating, and dangerous, and aggressive, and comforting. Harry felt his mind inexorably drowning in it.

He wanted it to stop.

Green eyes shot open. Through his bleary version, all Harry saw was Tom's face, peering at him with mild concern.

"You'll get use to it," shrugged Tom. "So... my offer?"

"Fine," Harry snapped, before he could think. "I'll take the offer. It's not like I have much of a choice."

Harry took a deep breath to calm down. His heart beat like he just ran a marathon. Harry concentrated on his Occlumency shield and cleared Tom's presence from his mind. Harry hoped the spirit couldn't tell how much the soul bond managed to shook him. He mustn't show any weakness in front of the spirit, because he needed all the bargaining chips he could muster.

Staring at the ceiling, Harry named his terms carefully.

"Tom... I... I'll offer you my loyalty for a price. I'll follow you...as long as you have the power to overthrow Voldemort. Show me you have a plan that can help  _me_  to  _my_  goals, and I'll be your perfect little soldier. Gladly."

"Ah, spoken like a true Slytherin," Tom nodded. "Nothing is for free... Fair enough. But for now... Sleep, Harry."

Harry was surprised Tom didn't press the issue, right here and now, because he had Harry cornered. Harry had lost the mind battle. Tom's magic lingered in Harry's mind, caressing his thoughts and pushing Harry to the edge, dangling over an imagined abyss. Harry felt weak, vulnerable, like the powerless little boy he is. At the moment, he was sure he would've agreed to anything Tom asked... Anything, as the voice in his head compelled him to.

But Tom didn't press the issue.

Harry snuck a look at Tom. The spirit looked so peaceful when he's sleeping. They were lying facing each other, dressed in matching blue, satin nightgown that Narcissa made, huddled in the centre of a large, four-poster bed, surrounded by Quidditch posters in Harry's room. They looked so normal lying there, two exhausted children curling together after a rough play day.

Tom held onto Harry's hand, gathered against his own chest. Draco used to sleep like this too, on his side, always using Harry's arms as his pillow. It used to annoy Harry to no-end, that Draco was a restless sleeper, but one that insisted on having sleep-over and always ended up fighting with Harry for pillow space.

But now the memory just made Harry feel guilty. He knew he should've fought harder for the freedom of his brother, instead abandoning the boy to please Tom.

Harry knew he should've fought harder... but he didn't. He couldn't refuse Tom.

 _Oh, why can't I refuse him...?_  thought Harry as he drifted asleep.

" _ **Becausssse, ssssweet child,"**_ answered the voice in his mind _._ _ **"You are mine**_."

* * *

Harry matched into Potions classroom in a huff. He was about to be late. He ran back to the dorm to drop off the Ministry documents that arrived in the morning. Miss Talberry wasn't lying; there really were thirty-one of them. Lists upon lists of endless details relating to the Commemoration dinner— dates, seating arrangements, plate size, security, the whole shebang.

_Way too much work for one single person. Never mind for a boy who is studying for his NEWTS, running a Quidditch team, and simultaneously moon-lighting as an assassin._

Everyone was already seated, six at a table with two giant cauldrons per group. Harry surveyed the room. The students were in their usual spots, separated by houses and buzzing loudly amongst themselves.

Tom was surrounded by the usual group. The blonde boy leaned over to converse with Blaise Zambini and didn't even seem to notice Harry. Sitting next to him, Pansy Parkinson waved at Harry enthusiastically.

Instead, Harry ignored them and matched over to the Gryffindor table.

Suddenly, as if by magic, the murmuring in the room vanished. All eyes were focused on him, and he could just feel the disapproval emitting from the Slytherins. He smiled at the gob-smacked Gryffindors.

"Mind if I join you?" asked Harry. And the whole room took a collective breath.

There were people who said the real function of a school is to socialize the children so they can transact into society seamlessly.

Growing up in Hogwarts, Harry agreed with them. Learning the texts and spell works was easy, the part about getting along with other people—well— that part wasn't so easy.

Still, Harry thought he had done well for himself. Being a Slytherin and an important clog of a Pure-blood family, in school, his most important task was to learn the social rules and climb to the top of the hierarchy. And Harry managed to do so, successfully, with the help of Tom. The two Malfoy boys emerged as the leaders of Slytherin at a young age— ambitious, competent and admired — they were the shiny exemplars of Voldemort's New Britain.

That also meant they were being watched carefully, not only because the students strive to emulate them, but also because they were being judged, for their faithfulness to their duty as pure-bloods and for their commitment to Voldemort's ideology. And so, their actions must all adhere to Voldemort's rules.

Harry knew this. He learned his duties at a young age.

Voldemort's society was build on rules and regulations, iron-casted to support the unshakable hierarchy — at the top are the ancient pure-blood families (those who contributed greatly to the revolution, to the winning side); at the middle are the obedient and hard-working public (wizards and witches who prayed for peace and followed orders); little below them are the hooligans, criminals and magical creatures; and at the very bottom, buried beneath contempt and fear, are the blood-traitors (those who associated with Dumbledore, to the losing side) and Muggle-borns (who provide cheap labour to atone for their ancestor's sins).

Rules were the one thing that holds New Britain together. As long as people followed Voldemort's rules, society could exist. And it was the duties of pure-bloods (and their children) to make sure all rules are clear and well-executed.

So they started to learn the rules early— in school — at Hogwarts. When they were younger, freshly off the train and awed by the grandeur of Hogwarts, the children were equal and they played together, fighting on the Quidditch pitch and tumbling in the snow. But, as they've grown, they learned to abide by their place in society and learned to love — and hate —the rules.

Hogwarts was more than a school. It was an institution, ancient and iconic like the Ministry itself. At Hogwarts, there were many rules, formal ones (such as the Educational Decrees) and informal ones (too many to list).

So, off course, there were rules regarding friendship.  _Many rules_... But the most important one was simple— one associates with one's  _own_. Slytherins stay with Slytherins. Gryffindors dance with Gryffindors. Status begets status; power attracts power, such were the rules of pure-blood society. One slip— well, one slip in Slytherin, where ambitions are never lacking, you can bet there will be a dozen more hungry climbers, eager to step over your fallen body and take your spot.

So Harry was careful not to slip, not to arouse suspicion, not to stir the pot. He was, as he's proud to say, the perfect Slytherin boy, as decent as the ones described on Ministry of Truth's propaganda materials.

Expect for one thing, there was one blemish on his résumé— Harry's friendship with Hermione.

People often questioned Harry's friendship with Hermione—  _the Slytherin prince and the Mud-blood,_  they said,  _why are they friends? Are they star-crossed lovers? Or a joke...?_   _She's going to drag him down_ , they told him.

Harry shrugged.  _He was going down anyways, mud-blood or no._

Anyways, Harry enjoyed Hermione's company. She was smart and loyal, and she didn't gossip, which was important. Also, she hated the  _rules_  as much as he did. They used to spend long hours in the library, reading in silence. She helped him research his Warding projects and he helped her obtain contraband Muggle books (unfortunately, this resulted in some nasty rumours, but Tom ended that nonsense). Tom never liked Hermione personally, but he never opposed their association either, which, Harry hoped, meant that he made the right choice in friends.

Beside, Tom had advised Harry on how he to turn the situation in his favour. While Harry's friendship with Hermione was and  _is_  an exception to the rules, it was also a demonstration of power. It showed that he — and he alone — could bend the rules and get away with it.

Off course, it was a risky move, because this works if— _and only if_  — he managed to get away with it.

_Which, luckily, Harry believed that he could._

* * *

/Past/

Hermione Granger and Harry Potter Malfoy became friends sometimes in the summer after his fourteenth birthday, through a uniquely shared experience that won Harry's trust.

Harry had just started his Warding lessons that summer. His Warding teacher showed him how to break the Ministry's wards that hid the entrances to the Muggle world. His Warding teacher told him that ward-breaking itself was easy. After all, the Minister had to cover so much ground that they couldn't afford complicate spells. The tricky part was avoiding detection. It was easy to break the Ministry's wards, but such efforts were futile if one cannot avoid capture by the Ministry of Love.

 _The key,_ Harry's warding teacher told him,  _is misdirection._  First, one must never use one's own wand, for wand signal are traceable. Second, one must never use the same entrance for too long, for that too can raise suspicion. Lastly, one must learn to blend in with any environment, for wards can be located at a number of strange or not-so-strange locations.

Too bad Harry didn't pay heed to his teacher's advice.

"What are you doing?"

Someone startled Harry, as he poked his wand at a brick wall. He stood at the end of a tightly crammed alleyway, hidden from view by a row of stone building. His hand froze in mid-air, ready to cast the Ward-breaking spell.

A girl in white apron stood behind Harry. She ogled at the rune symbols on the wall, which Harry had just drawn with his wand.

"Hermione?" Harry recognized her. She was a Gryffindor from his year. A muggle-born. A quiet girl who always got good grades. Harry had hardly spoken to her before.

"Yes," Hermione stepped closer and peered at the wand in Harry's hand. It was an old wand, unregistered, one that belonged to a dead woman, which Harry obtained on the black market. The wand was brown, with peeling paint and cracks along its length. It clearly didn't belong to him.

"Are those runes?" she asked, agape. "Are you trying to break into the Muggle world?"

Harry's eyes widened. He swung around and pointed his wand in the girl's face, unsure whether or not to curse her.

The girl didn't even blink at the threatening gesture. Instead, she grabbed the wand with both hands.

"Take me with you. Please— I need... I need to go to Muggle London," pleaded Hermione. "Take me with you. Or...or... I'll yell!"

Harry supposed he could've stunned her before she even had a chance to open her mouth. However, there was a strange desperation in her large brown eyes that gave him pause.

So he agreed, and activated the runes scribed on the brick wall, at the dead-end of a seemly empty alleyway. The runes turned red, shimmered, and then vanished. Harry and Hermione stumbled forward; then suddenly found themselves standing behind a dumpster. Before them was a busy intersection of traffic lights and honking cars.

"Oh, thank you, Malfoy," squealed Hermione. She picked herself up and dusted her dress. "I—"

Harry grabbed her shoulder and slammed her against the dumpster.

"Ok, we are in Muggle London," menaced Harry, his wand pointing between Hermione's eyes. "NOW. TALK."

Hermione told him everything on the tube, as they headed to Woodford station, where Hermione believe her parents' office was located.

She had told him, "they are dentists, ya'know— Muggle teeth doctors... if I've remembered correctly. I haven't... I haven't seen them in seven years... But they... they might still remember me...Right?"

She explained to him that once Muggle-born children— such as herself— were taken in by the Ministry's Orphanages, they were never allowed to see their family again. Upon arrival, the children were given memory potions to "cleanse their minds"; then, afterward, they were force-fed constant lies about their biological parents— that the Muggles beat them, neglected them, and hated them for their might.  _Hated them for being blessed with magic._

Most of the children believed the lies.

Some believed it because it was true; some believed it because they were weak-minded and gullible; some believed it because they are too afraid to fight back. But not Hermione. She was clever. She snuck into the bathroom that first night and forced herself to throw-up, because she noticed her milk tasted funny. And so she lost  _less_  than the others. But with the erosion of time, everything fades, even the memories that Hermione so desperately clung onto.

Still, she could recall her parents' face. Her memories were blurry, just snapshots of smiling faces, loud voices, a dog barking, and her own childish face reflected on the shiny window of their dental office. Yet, the more she tried to remember, the more she forgot.

And she longed to see them.  _So much._  Too see them before she completely forgets. Too see if they were, in fact,  _real_.

But she also knew she'll never get a chance to visit. The Ministry was never going to grant her permission to re-enter the Muggle world. Hermione had decided to save money for hiring a Ward-breaker on the black market.

And so, she was working at a summer job, sorting potion ingredients at a store, when she noticed Harry sneaking around the corner. She noticed him because he was a student wearing an expensive robe. A pure-blood child, she deduced, who should never be in such a neighbourhood. So she followed him and ambushed him without a plan.

Hermione's mousy brown hair covered her eyes, as she apologized for the inconvenience she caused. She didn't look at Harry, or at the Muggles passing by. Instead, she stared down at the brown sparrow tattoo on the back of her right hand, a badge of mockery, reminding her that she neither belonged to magical or muggle world, like a bird without a nest.

The girl was a nervous mess.

Harry sighed.

He didn't why he was indulging the silly girl on her quest. He never thought of himself as the chivalrous type. Initially, he just wanted to test his ward-breaking abilities, that's all. Sometimes, he would sneak off to see a movie or to browser Muggle bookstores. He liked wandering about the Muggle world, because there was no trance of Voldemort there, no trance of the ministry and their control over his life. No magic either. Just happy, hapless Muggles.

But... Perhaps he got overly confident with his new skill and he got  _careless_.

And Harry knew carelessness was the downfall of many great men. He was careless and now he had this extra baggage to deal with, perhaps he should rethink about Obliviating the poor girl _._

_After all, he didn't owe her anything._

Yet, there he was, sitting on a bench outside of the Granger's Dental Office, waiting for the Muggle-born girl. Finally, after an hour, Hermione wandered out in a daze, a small snow globe clutched in her hand.

She sat down beside Harry, and proceeded to stare at the snow globe for a long time. Her face frozen in a shocked state.

"I saw my mum," mumbled the girl. "She is just as I remembered, but her hair is shorter... I recognized her anyways. She said dad was out, because of the flu... and so... and so I didn't get to meet him. I saw pictures, though. He is... tall."

"She was very sweet—" The girl's voice was cracking, but she tried to sound nonchalant.

"She thought I was dead. Malfoy. DEAD—" Hermione laughed bitterly "—Drowned in the backyard pool. At the age of seven. How tragic! The ministry prepared everything...even gave her a fake body. I told her I was an elementary school friend of Hermione Granger and... And she said she likes me. She gave me this—" Hermione waved the snow globe in her hand. "— 'Said it was new, from Paris. And then...Mum... Mrs. Granger invited me to dinner! —Malfoy — Dinner with my own family!... Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this?"

"Do you want to stay?" ask Harry quietly.

Harry clutched his wand. They couldn't be gone from the Wizarding world for that long. Hermione needed to return to the Orphanage before sunset or it would arouse suspicion. If she was weak, then Harry needed to tie the lose ends by himself. The memory spell was at the tip of his tongue.

"NO," the girl answered quickly. "No. I can't... You know I can't. If the Ministry finds out, there's no telling what they'll do. The Ministry of Unity is not exactly a friendly place for Muggle-borns. Or for Muggles. Oh, yes, I'm familiar with their policies—" The girl shudders and all the life seemed to sap out of her. "I can't... I saw photos on the wall. I have brothers— TWINS! — young and chubby. I want to meet them, but I just can't— I can't risk them."

Suddenly, she burst into tears and sobbed softly into her hands.

"Oh, I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't — Now I don't know how to continue pretending—"

Harry expected to be impatient. Normally, he hated when girls cried and he never knew what to do. But, to his own surprise, Hermione's quiet sobbing didn't annoy him, instead it struck up a resonance, somewhere deep in his mind, from memories and feelings that Harry had learnt to lock away— safely— behind his Occlumency shield. It took Harry a moment to pin-point the emotion— it was compassion.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm... I'm sorry," said Harry hesitantly. He placed a hand on her thin shoulder. "This isn't... this isn't right."

She didn't respond. So they just sit there, in this quiet, unremarkable Muggle neighbourhood, beneath waving branches of summer's birch, as warm sunlight filtered down through the leaves and scattered golden dots on their faces. It was a nice neighbourhood, sincere and normal and family-friendly.

Finally, Hermione stood up. The tears dried on her cheeks.

"You know my secret now, Malfoy. I hope you'll protect it, as tightly as I'll protect yours."

"I will," answered Harry. He wanted to say more but he couldn't think of anything.

"Shall we go home?"

Harry was surprised to hear those words coming from her mouth. She offered him a small smile and he realized that she will be fine.

They walked together in silence. Harry lost in his thoughts.

Voldemort took from Hermione just as much as he took from Harry. Harry wanted revenge for personal reasons. He was not interested in politics and ideology, (that's more Tom's domain) but Hermione's plight of despair and injustice was something Harry could understand. Harry knew her pain— like his— will not ease, but that she will recover enough and commit to another cause like he did.

Harry was going to kill the Dark Lord for revenge, for himself, and that still remained his goal— but... perhaps, someday, something good will come out of all the blood that shall be shed by Harry's hands.

Harry stopped in his tracks and turned to the girl. He held out his hand.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced. The name is Harold Potter Malfoy, but, for the love of Merlin, please call me Harry."

* * *

_(Anyways, back to the present... Where were we? Oh, yes the potions classroom.)_

The Gryffindors stared at Harry, mouth agape, as if he just said something ridiculous, like conversed to them in Troll-tongue... while the rest of the students continued to look at him with silent scrutiny.

"Wh..what...?" stuttered Seamus Finnigan. "What...why are—?"

"I've noticed you have the space," grinned Harry, pointedly ignoring the glares from the Slytherin table. "You are close to the window. I like the view."

Before Seamus could reply, Harry pulled up a chair and sat down next to Hermione. Obviously, Harry won't allow them a chance to refuse him, or he'll look like a fool, and quite frankly he couldn't think of a good reason for the Gryffindors to refuse him, anyways.

"Morning, 'Mione," Harry greeted the Muggle-born.

Hermione looked up from her book. She raised an eyebrow— there was a sliver stud pinched above her left brow ridge— and shrugged.

Then, Harry turned back to the Gryffindors, who continued to stare at him unabashedly.

"Hello, Weasley, Finnigan, Thomas and Brown. I'm Harry. As you know, I'm sure, since we been in the same class for seven years—"

"Is this... is this some kind of trick?" injected Seamus Finnigan uncertainly. The Gryffindors shared a concerned look. They were used to battling against the Slytherins and they were used to losing, especially against the Malfoy brothers.

"What... what do you want with us, Malfoy?"

"Friendly bunch," commented Harry offhandedly. "Relax, Finnigan. I didn't come to steal your potion homework, you know— as I told you already, I like window seats. Also, I have a matter I wish to discuss with Hermione. It's more convenient to catch her before her next class."

As soon as he said that, Lavender Brown's eyes lit-up. The notorious gossiper glanced rapidly between Harry and Hermione. Harry could almost see the wheels turning in her head, perhaps eagerly formulating some Romeo and Juliet bullshit to spread around the great hall.

He sighed.

_Great, just what he needs._

Luckily, at that moment, Professor Slughorn walked in, balancing an armful of scrolls with both hands, and saved Harry from Brown's questioning.

Slughorn tasked them with brewing the Invisibility potions (a brew that can be used on all inanimate objects, such as clothes and cars, with its effects lasting from one to twenty-four hours, depending on the quality of the potion). Each group received a scroll with the ingredients listed, but the amounts were left blank, to be decided by the students themselves.

The  _good_  thing about seventh-year class was that it allowed them to experiment with potions, to create and improve upon a multifarious of concoctions. The  _bad_  thing about seventh-year class was that it allowed them to experiment with potions, which can lead to a multifarious of colourful accidents (with poisoning being a main concern).

The Gryffindors turned to Hermione, who has several years of experience working in a potions shop, and deferred to her happily.

 _Ah, so this is why Weasley haven't flunked Potions yet,_  Harry mused to himself.

He knew Weasley was dreadful at Potions, from personal experience. (He had the privilege to sit behind the Gryffindor for seven-years and had smelled every foul thing created by the other.) The only reason for the red-head to continue this course was, Harry suspected, to spend more time with Hermione. Since the boy had a crush on his friend since fourth-year.

_Three years and still no confession... And he thought Gryffindor were supposed to be brave._

The Gryffindor table wasn't so bad. They were the loudest in the class, but they were friendly to Harry, once they got over the initial shock of his presence. Teenagers discussed similar things everywhere— popular shows, music, boys and girls —and Harry adapted seamlessly. It wasn't like Gryffindors never spoke to Slytherins before... just not often to Tom and Harry's group (who were all children of the high-esteemed members of society and so, they had higher-standard for company). Harry even learned that Finnigan had a cousin in Slytherin, in second-year.

At the moment, Harry was helping Hermione score Tannydevil Fruits— small, spiked, mango-like fruits that danced in their hand.

Harry casted a Muffliato Charm around them, so that no one could over-hear their conversations. Then, he proceeded to tell her about the incident with Voldemort and the thirty-one documents. (Off course, he left out the gory details about the torture curse and the funny —hem hem— magazine.)

She listened, while writing furiously in her notebook. A Tannydevil Fruit jumped onto her head, dripping yellow liquid over her hair.

"The Dark Lord," she gave him a concerned look, pointedly ignoring the fruit dancing on her head. "Why am I not surprised, Harry?"

"I know, I know, I'm stupid," grumbled Harry. "Draco told me so already...Will you help with the documents?"

"With the fact-checking?" she nodded. "Sure, I'll do whatever I can. However, I know next to nothing about Government functions."

"Neither do I," Harry shrugged. The yellow fruit leaped off Hermione's head. Its hooks entangled in her hair, as it began to swing around her shoulder. "I don't think they send me the actual security details, anyways. It's probably just a decoy, a test-run or something, so the quality shouldn't matter."

"Ok, meet you in the library, at the usual time," confirmed Hermione, as more and more yellow juice seeped into her hair.

"Wait, I'll help," Weasley suddenly popped up, startling them both. He was sitting on the other side of the table, counting corn kernels. "Library, right?"

Harry glared at Weasley suspiciously. He and the youngest Weasley male never got along. They were both Quidditch fanatics and Harry's team crushed the Gryffindors for the seventh-year running. So there was a lot of bad blood between the two teams. The red-haired boy tried to smile but his face just refused to cooperate.

Harry put down the paring knife. He had finished peeling all Tannydevil Fruits, save for the one dangling in Hermione's hair. He cancelled the charm with a wave of his wand.

"How did you eavesdrop? The Muffliato charm—"

Weasley looked sheepish. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop—" He held up a pink rubber ear attached to a long string. "—Er...This is Fred and George's Extendable Ears, which has anti-anti-noise charm properties."

"Oh, lovely," Harry glared at the clearly used-for-eavesdrop device. "It's a shame that the Weasley twins are not into espionage. Their country can really use them."

Weasley grinned, a little embarrassed, and dropped his voice.

"Listen, Malfoy. Fred and George told... told me about what you did for my dad and I just want to say... to say thank you. So how about it, let me help you?—"

Harry considered him for a moment. The boy's pale freckled face looked sincere. Harry thought about the endless documents, waiting in his room.

He turned to Hermione, pointing to Weasley. "Can he read and write?"

"Fairly well, as far as I know," Hermione remained entirely focused on her notebook.

"Alright," Harry nodded to Weasley. "Welcome to the team, then. Join us so you won't be worrying about me asking Hermione out for a date."

Weasley spluttered, and turned into a shade that matched nicely with his hair.

Finally, Hermione finished with her notes and turned her attention to the plant tangled in her hair.

With one swift movement, Hermione grabbed the paring knife and stabbed the Tannydevil Fruit through its middle, pinning the plant onto the wooden table. Her force were so strong that she crushed the yellow fruit, causing it to explode, yellow juice squirted out in all directions and sprayed everyone at the Gryffindor table.

"HEY! —" they protested in union and turned toward them. Then, everyone laughed.

After class, Harry stayed behind to help Slughorn clean up, because he wanted avoid talking to the Slytherins.

But...no such luck. They were all waiting for him in the hallways, their expressions ranging from curious to annoyed to dismayed.

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?" shrieked Pansy, indignity etched on her face.

Harry held up a hand, but Tom spoke first.

"You guys go ahead. I will speak to him," commanded Tom, and they left them at once.

Tom stared at him for a moment, the blonde's expression unreadable like always. Bright sunlight passed through the large window pane and covered Tom with a golden cloak that high-lighted his handsome features.  _Perfect as always._

"So, you've heard about the funeral?" stated Tom. "You know you  _must_  attend."

Harry swore.

_How the hell does T_ _om always know Harry's thoughts?_

"Fine," Harry spitted out. "I'll go...But I am NOT giving the eulogy."

* * *

_**Parseltongue** _

**Author's ramblings:**

Oh, man. Sorry for the delay, again. Shame on me... I wish my writing style isn't so wordy and detailed. ARGH! I just want to get the plot rolling. I prefer reading about action and intrigue, but writing it... Not so much.

So Tom and Harry finally made-up... ish. But too bad Harry fell asleep too soon.

Tom was like " _ **Because, sweet child, you are mine**_ —" (Harry falls asleep) "—  _ **Horcrux**_." And this is how Harry missed an important plot detail, for like seven years. Hehehe.

And, as always, a huge shout-out to my BETA,  **Krysania**  !

* * *

Today's bonus feature is of a practical nature. Miss Coco Nut sincerely hopes it'll prove helpful to all the boys and girls in their everyday endives.

The following is an excerpt from  _'Tom Riddle's Guide on How to Get a Boyfriend'_ :

Step 1) Try to kill him.

Step 2) Fail to kill him.

Step 3) Raise him and teach him how to kill your enemies.

Step 4) ? (Involves alcohol, ropes, coercion and some indecent behaviours.)

Step 5) Lives happily ever after, while ruling over the world. #Winning


	18. First Times

**Chapter 17**

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania**

* * *

/Past/

The first thing little Harry did in the morning (after waking up in bed next to someone who just attempted to murder him) was heading to the Library.

He pulled every book he could find on Soul Bonds— books on Oath and Contracts, books on Blood Rituals, books on History of Magic, books on  _Olde Magick_. Unfortunately, he found next to nothing.

Few books only gave some passing mentions of Soul Bond. Legends had it as a ritual used a long, long ago— to bind wizards and witches who wished to share magic so they could become twice as powerful, to bind  _two_   _as_   _one,_ to bind for a lifetime. These rituals were so ancient that they predated the invention of wands and spells, performed, once upon a time, in secret under the stars and elements. Perhaps they even predated written words, hence the lack of information. Soul Bonds were thought of as statements of true love between soul mates, between  _lovers_.  _A romantic ideal,_ concluded the books,  _a story element told in legends to represent the wonder and eternity of true love._

_True love._

Harry blanched and tossed the book across the room.

"You are looking at the wrong places," said a voice from behind Harry. "Try ' _Experiments on Theoretical Magick of Pre-Merlin Eras'_ by Anthony Tottles. Top shelf. Third from the left."

Harry whipped around and saw Tom grinning at him. The dark-scaled viper from last night draped across Tom's shoulder. It hissed at Harry lazily, baring long, white fans.

"Thanks," murmured Harry, after a long awkward silence.

Harry's muscles tensed up. He observed Tom carefully. Draco's childish face was the same delicate paleness, but Harry recognized nothing in those depthless eyes,  _nothing_  but a dark power simmering beneath that smile. He reached over Tom's shoulder and grabbed the book.

The whole situation was just ridiculous.

_...How could Tom act so normal?_

_Was Harry expected to pretend that last night was all a dream? To pretend that Tom didn't betray him yet again? To pretend that they were still friends?_

_True love. Soul mates._ _How ridiculous._

Tom's perfect, expressionless face offered no explanation as he continued to stare at Harry. Dark aura rolled of the young boy as Tom's grin only grew, like a predator certain of its upcoming victory.

The tome was thick and hard in Harry's hand. Briefly, Harry wondered if he could smash Tom's head with the book and kill him.

_But then... that meant he would be killing Draco as well... and Harry didn't want to do that._

Harry scanned the book quickly.

The book had a lengthy chapter on Soul Bonds. The author theorized that all oath spells (such as Vassalage Oath, Marriage Vow, Unbreakables...) are derivatives of incomplete forms of Soul Bonds. All oath spells required bonding using one of the three trifecta —one of life, magic or soul— However, a true Soul Bond required bonding by all three, which means, sadly, that Soul Bonding cases have never been successfully documented, because no one is stupid enough to experiment with their own souls.

"There's nothing useful here," Harry scowled. "No one has done it. EVER."

Tom shrugged. He sat down across from Harry. The viper slid off his shoulder and coiled on top of the book.

"Thus, we are pioneers. First recorded case of Soul Bonding in modern era. Shall I write to to let him know the good news?"

Harry stared. Viper's rough skin brushed against his hand. Its coolness made the hairs on his back stand up.

"The theory fits," murmured Tom. He tabbed the book thoughtfully. The large snake bobbled its head up and down in agreement.

"In reality this is  _your_  fault!  _Brother dear_ —" claimed Tom. " _Your_  stupid Vassalage oath has an unforeseen consequence.  _Now... didn't I warn you against old magic?_  Because of  _your_  recklessness, we were bonded for life—" Tom reached up and touched the scar on Harry's forehead. Instinctively, Harry flinched, but the scar felt fine.

"— And so... we're stuck with each other. And you can't blame me for that... But, really, isn't this what you wanted?  _Harry_ — Because, now, I'm obligated to guide you, since I'm  _bonded_  to do so—"

Harry thought about it for a moment.

_The theory does fit, but then again..._

"So you believe we are soul mates?" asked Harry sceptically.

"Semantics," answered Tom causally. He kept a laser focus on Harry's face, which made the small boy nervous.

"I have no use for soul mates. Although... suppose that we are, you aren't the worst choice, Harry dear—" Tom leaned in close and grinned horribly "—I do  _love_  the colour green."

"Yeah, well," snapped Harry. He bravely brushed the viper off the book. The snake hissed angrily, but it didn't attack.

"Excuse my doubts— I mean— You tried to kill me. TWICE!"

Tom chuckled.

" _Silly boy_. I only tried to kill you  _once_. That first time I merely wanted your body... In any case, that's old news. Let us not dwell on the past... We should focus on our plans to dethrone Voldemort. If I am to teach you, Harry, first I must require your trust and obedience.  _Can you offer me that much, Harry_?"

_Those words sounded awfully familiar._

Harry swallowed nervously.

_Surely Tom didn't expect him to fall for the same trick again._

Tom must've sensed Harry's hesitance. He smiled again, a redness creeping into his eyes.

"If you can't trust my words, Harry. Trust the  _bond_. The evidence is all there. The trifecta is complete. Bonding by life— you shared my bloodline and now you are a parselmouth. Bonding by soul— you held a part of my soul in your head, as you've experienced. Now... all we need is to confirm the last requirement, bonding by magic—"

"How? —" asked Harry quietly.

"How else are soul mates confirmed," remarked Tom. "By a  _kiss_."

Little Harry squeezed his eyes shut as Tom kissed him. He had never kissed anyone before, boy or girl, so he felt nervous.

Tom's movements were surprisingly gentle; a firm hand on his shoulder to steady him and a chaste little kiss on his lips.  _A light pressure._   _Warm and soft._ Their magic vibrated excitedly when it touched. It tickled.

Harry's light magic flowed from their contact, in mellow streams, dripping and trembling, mending into Tom's own shimmering blackness. It was strangely comforting, sharing his magic with another, as if they were two people sharing a most intimate moment, each being perfectly in sync with the other.

 _It felt true._   _Two as one._

_Magic never lies._

When Harry finally opened his eyes, Tom was sitting still, his back upright, a satisfied grin on his face. The spirit's eyes were large and scarlet like rubies, framed by long, golden lashes. Harry avoided looking at him.

"Okay," nodded Harry. Rosiness still coloured his cheek. "I believe your theory on the soul bond... However, Tom, I... I want some proof that you are capable of delivering what you are promising. Slytherin heir or not, how could a boy not much older than myself... have the power to over-throw the Dark Lord?"

Tom's grin never wavered. Those red-eyes seared onto Harry's own. He leaned in and whispered in Harry's ear, a low-humming hiss that dispensed through the room like the wind.

**_"Off coursssse, anything for you_ ** **_—_ ** **_love_ ** **_—_ ** **_"_ **

* * *

Tom pulled Harry into an empty classroom. Before Harry could protest, Tom slammed him against the wooden door and pinned his hands against his waist. He leaned closer, so close his warm breath fogged up Harry's glasses. Their noses touched. Their lips crashed together.

Tom's body pressed into Harry, tighter, closer. Harry could feel the definition of the other boy's muscles beneath his robes, tense and hard, pressing into him, trapping him against the door. Harry squirmed. The door handle jabbed painfully into his back. The Ouroboros tattoo on Harry's back burned, riled up by Tom's emotions, prickling and tugging within its strange constitution. Magic danced where their lips met, riveting with power. Tom's  _kisses_  were always forceful, hungry,  _burning_... Harry shuddered while his magic was devoured by a familiar dark power.

Their lips pressed tighter, as their weekly rituals proceeded with a little more passion than usual.

After a long while, Tom finally pulled away. Harry gasped for air. His face burned hot and the skin on his hands tickled where Tom held him.

Tom smirked, once he felt the fresh magic coursing through his vein.

"BLOODY HELL!" yapped Harry, blinking in shock. "A... a little warning next time,  _please_."

Tom's lips had left a warm imprint. The feeling was strange and it made Harry's heart race. Harry wondered if Tom could hear his heart beating like a drum, _Ba-bump Ba-bump_ , echoing through the room.

_Judging by the infuriating smirk on Tom's face, the answer was probably yes..._

"No need to be embarrassed, brother dear," drawled Tom. "It's just magic... Fresh magic. Power.  _Yours and mine_... can you feel it, Harry?" Tom brought Harry's hand up and pressed it to his lips, so Harry could feel the lingering heat.

"It  _feels_  so good."

Harry  _could_  feel it. Their magic saturated the empty classroom. On his back, the Ouroboros tattoo pulsed, purring, echoing Tom's pleasure.

"Ye... Yes ... well," stuttered Harry. His mind hadn't quite recovered from the shock. "So... er... er... THE FUNERAL!"

Mercifully, Tom released him at the moment.

"Oh, yes, Marcus Flint's funeral," nodded Tom. "We need to talk."

Harry pulled out his wand and drew up a privacy Ward around the room. It was easy to cast the spell since magic were thick in the room. A golden circle appeared on the wooden door, then shimmered and vanished.

Harry stared at the door, admiring his own spell work. Suddenly, his hands were covered in blood.

_The dead Aurors' young face surfaced. A pale, waxy face engulfed in green flames. Eyes silently accusing._

Harry shuddered and suppressed the feeling of guilt that he hadn't experienced in a long while. He had killed many before, but all were deserving evil-doers; Death Eaters who had destroyed many lives, who had destroyed Harry's life. But  _Marcus_... Marcus was a friend.

_He was innocent._

Harry thought he had become numb to death, but that was just wishful thinking.

"If you hadn't done it, he would've killed you," observed Tom. He sat on an empty desk, long legs rested on an over-turned chair. "Mercy to the enemy is cruelty to the self."

"Marcus was too stupid to kill anyone," laughed Harry bitterly, as he walked over to join Tom. "But don't worry... I'm fine. I wouldn't let it slip."

"You don't look fine," Tom's eyes searched Harry's face carefully. "I wish I could say I understand what you are feeling ** _—_**   _But I don't_ ** _—_**  Human empathy and, by association, guilt are mysteries to me.  _Harry_ , my dear, I wish... that you could share my... nature. Life is much easier when one don't care 'bout all the frivolous things. But ** _—_** then again ** _—_**  if you didn't  _care_ , you wouldn't be  _you_. And I suppose that would be...  _boring_."

"Thanks, I think," answered Harry sarcastically. He pushed all the bitterness deep into himself. "I'll attend the funeral. Don't worry."

Pansy Parkinson, who was Marcus' cousin, even wanted Harry to give a condolence speech at the funeral, you know, on behaves of all Hogwarts students. Harry had never heard of a more stupid idea in his life. And that was why he had been avoiding her all week, but he couldn't run away forever.

Tom kicked over another chair and indicated for Harry to sit down next to him.

"Don't worry about the speech. Voldemort is attending. I imagine he'll be giving a speech."

"And... who else is going?" sighed Harry. He sat down next to Tom. The desk was rather small, so their shoulders bumped.

" _Everyone_. The Ministry of Truth want to use the funeral as a launching pad for the latest campaign against the Lady. Since they supposedly have a break-through on the case—"

"...Should I be worried?"

Tom frowned. "I'm not sure. Dear Bella is hogging the Lady murders all to herself... Unfortunately, my spies have been assigned to a different case. Lately, the Ministry of Peace are bustling, they've just captured a large of group of Undesirables, from an expedition in Romania. "

"Anyone famous?"

 _"Oh_ , lots of famous ones. Moody, Scrimgeour, Black, Lupin— About a quarter of Dumbledore's forces in total, I'd guess?"

Harry considered the information carefully.  _Hopefully this will keep Bellatrix busy for a while._ He hasn't had a good night sleep since that night he over-heard the conversation at Snape's office. Harry was so high-strung lately that he don't think he could take any more bad news.

Meeting Voldemort face-to-face had disturbed Harry more than he cared to admit. Recently, some nights, the nightmares were back... and it made Harry feel like he was drowning in hopeless exhaustion.

From his peripheral vision, Harry was dimly aware Tom staring at him, as the spirit was prone to do when they were alone together. The intensity always gave Harry the impression that Tom could see through his mask right into his soul.

The thought was both terrifying and liberating.

It was times like these that made Harry wish he could talk to Tom honestly. To share the burden that has so long cursed him.  _To share and to trust._

_But... he knew... he couldn't._

Harry smiled weakly. "I'm surprised the Daily Prophet hadn't thrown a parade with all these news."

"They are keeping it under-wrapped for now," shrugged Tom. "Voldemort is negotiating with Dumbledore. Apparently the old goat has something he wants."

"WHAT? ** _—_**  But they  _hate_  each other."

" _Yes_...hence the secrecy. Quite a fascinating affair, in total. But ** _—_**  it doesn't concern you, Harry, dear. Just lay low for now. And wait for my instructions ** _—_** "

Harry scoffed and turned away from Tom. Off course, Tom was not going to give him the full-story. After all, Tom was the young king-to-be and Harry was just one of the many pieces on his chess board. Tom was the important one ** _—_**  the one who planned the operations and dictated the movements. And Harry was his good little soldier...  _or good little pet._

Harry was fine with the arrangement when he was younger, but now he wanted  _more_. More responsibilities, perhaps. More results, maybe.  _More_ —  _He wanted to know more about Tom._

"Merlin forbids you ever telling me  _anything_ ," retorted Harry softly, so softly that he didn't think Tom heard him.

Tom's expression changed. With one finger, he turned Harry's cheek to face him. He forced Harry to look at him. Those red orbs were focused and serious, although his touch was gentle.

"The truth is... I'm not telling you certain things because I'm trying to  _protect_  you, Harry. You know how dangerous is this game ** _—_**  We win or we die.  _Simple._  I do have faith in your abilities, Harry...Even if I don't express it enough. But your tendencies— that youthful impulsiveness — that reckless anger — it  _worries_  me."

There was genuine concern in those scarlet eyes. Harry was touched by Tom's reassurances. Tom's praises, however rare, always delighted him. The spirit's velvety tone always calmed him. Ever since he was a little boy, Harry had always clung onto Tom's every word.

_Lies and all._

"Listen, one more thing," continued Tom, his hands slid to Harry's neck and pressed against his jugular. Tom often enjoyed the feeling of holding life beneath his palm, particularly Harry's, who was ever so lively.

"You need to go see your Warding teacher. Ask him for a background story, regarding where you've learnt your skills. Get an appropriate story ** _—_** for the Ministry ** _—_**  preferably... one that doesn't involve Mr. Trafalgar, alright?"

"Am I being vetted?" asked Harry in surprise.

"Yes, Voldemort's office is looking into you. I guess you've made an impression last time—" there was a hint of jealousy in Tom's voice "— Listen, child. Stay away from Voldemort. You're not ready to handle him... It would be  _premature_  if you catch his attention."

To empathise his point, Tom tugged Harry closer, like the way owners tugged at the leash of a disobedient dog. Harry hissed in displeasure.

They were sitting so close already that the slightest movements brought their faces together. For a moment, Harry thought Tom was going to kiss him again so he shut his eyes. But instead, he laughed and pulled Harry to his chest. Tom rested his chin on Harry's head, just like he used to do when they were younger, when he used to hold Harry as the boy was startled awake, shaking with cold-sweat from his nightmares.

"I think I liked you better when you were little," said Tom, combing through Harry's curls with long, slender fingers. "You were much more obedient... and cuter too. Used to follow me around like a puppy— floppy hair and all —"

Tom's hold tightened.

"—But you've turned out fine, I suppose— One last thing, I will be joining your and Miss Granger's little study-group. There's already enough rumours regarding you two, and... I don't think your reputation can take anymore hits."

"...I don't care about some dumb rumours," grumbled Harry.

"Well _, I do_ ," whispered Tom tenderly. "You know how I don't like to share."

* * *

/Past/

Little Harry was back in the dingy, dark dungeon, Tom standing, grinning, by his side. On the floor in front of them, the brown viper squeezed its thick body around a thin man in black robes, forcing him into a kneeling position.

_This... seemed awfully familiar._

"May I present the Secretary of Love, Mr. Bartemius Crouch Jr." announced Tom gleefully. "A token of my appreciation—  _just for you_   _Harry_ — to celebrate the beginning of our beautiful friendship."

With great flourish, Tom thrust a long knife into Harry's hands, and then retreated to a corner of the room. He moved calmly, as if he was merely a theatre director introducing the next play.

The robed man was tall. Even kneeling, his face came up to Harry's shoulder. His face was badly beaten up, blood-spluttered with cuts and bruises, but he held his head up proudly. Harry recognized that face; it was one from his nightmares, one of those that laughed as his parents were butchered, over and over again. Even now,  _this_   _face_ , plastered with blood and fear and anger, send a chill down Harry's spine.

He turned to look at Tom, who smiled encouragingly, pointing to the knife in his hand.

_Yes... Harry was not that helpless, little boy anymore. This time, the tables had turned._

Harry took a step forward.

Beneath bangs of dirty brown hair, the man eyes met Harry's. Instantly, Harry knew the man recognized him as well.

 _Recognized him from that fateful night when he and Bellatrix hand-delivered Harry's family to hell_.

The blade felt heavy in his small hands. Its silvery surface glimmered beautifully. Harry looked at its sharp edges and the man's eyes followed his. Harry's hands trembled. He wondered if the man could see the inevitable, felt the fear and death like his mother did.

He swallowed thickly. Then he steadied himself.

_When he asked to see a proof of Tom's ability, this isn't exactly what he had in mind..._

Nevertheless, Harry knew exactly what he must do.

Harry took the knife with both hands and plunged it, handle-deep, into the man's chest. Warm blood trickled from the wound, first in a slit, then streams of hot liquid poured over Harry's hands. It made the hilt slippery and Harry lost his grip on the knife.

The man screamed in pain, then choked on the gag on his mouth. He fell over and lay trembling on the ground, choking slowly on his own blood. A pool of red liquid formed around him, and Harry jumped back to avoid the expanding redness.

He had never killed anyone before.

The human flesh was tougher than he expected. The one simple act sapped all of Harry's strength. His arms felt weak, shaky. He stared at the blood on his hands. They were shockingly red on those small, childish fingers. As Harry watched the body writhing on the floor, all he felt was numbness. He  _should be more horrified_ , Harry thought,  _he should feel something more drastic and even remorseful._

_But he didn't._

_All he felt was an empty void of disgust and confusion. He knew_ _he was a child no longer._

After a while, the anguishing sounds stopped. Harry crouched down tentatively, and reached to overturn the body.

Suddenly, with a startling roar, the man leaped up. He had somehow gotten free from the viper's hold. With impossible strength, he wriggled the knife from his chest, producing a nasty squishing sound. He towered over Harry, a man three-times the boy's size, a battle-hardened soldier who was much more capable to wield such a blade than the terrified boy in front of him.

The man raised the knife. _A murderous, maddening grin on his face._ He swung the knife.

Hot blood splashed on Harry's face.

Before he knew what was happening, Harry was enveloped by a warm hug. Tom stood in front of him, shielding Harry with his own body, a body not much bigger than Harry's own. Tom's wand was drawn. In the direction where the wand pointed, Bartemius Crouch's body toppled over.

_Dead for good this time._

Tom paid the dead body no attention. He wiped blood from Harry's cheek. For the first time, for the briefest moment, Harry saw genuine worry flashing across Tom's face.

"Are you alright?" grimaced Tom. "Perhaps... you weren't ready—"

"I—" Harry began, something hot dripped onto his shoulder. "TOM— TOM—YOUR ARM!"

The sliver knife protruded from Tom's right arm. It had sliced clean through and wedged into the arm, like a gruesome Halloween prop, the metallic tip showing on one side and the handle on the other. There was so much blood.

Harry clung onto Tom's robe, unsure of what to do. The pent-up stress and dread of the past month accumulated to this moment, crushing the last morsel of Harry's will. Nothing had been easy ever since he discovered Tom Riddle's diary...  _Nothing_... and suddenly it was too much for his ten-years-old mind.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," cried Harry, tears and blood wetted his robe. He clung onto Tom as the only thing he knew how. " _Please don't die. Please don't die_."

Tom sighed. Perhaps the lectures could wait another day.

Tom wrapped his good arm— his wand arm, thankfully— around the young boy.

"Its fine now, my child," soothed Tom. The blood-lost was giving him a head-ache, but the result was worth it. "Nothing a healing charm can't fix."

Little Harry wailed louder, burying his face into Tom's robe. The smell of blood was nauseating.

 _Tom's blood_.  _This was all his fault! His mistake almost cost Tom an arm._   _Oh, how could he be so stupid!?_

Sadly for little Harry, at that moment, he was too busy crying to notice the satisfied smirk curling on Tom's lips.

In the middle of the room, Artemis, the self-proclaimed queen of all Black Mambas, coiled on top of the dead man, hissing with displeasure as she watched her master interacting with the leaking human child. Her tail flickered back-and-forth in confusion.

She sunk her fans into the dead body, taking her anger out on poor, unmoving Barty.

 _How dare this two-feet'ed beast strike her massster?! This ungrateful creature! He wouldn't have been able to move a single muscle_ _— not a single muscle_  — _if her master hadn't first ordered her to let him go._

* * *

**Author's ramblings:**

**_"Parseltongue"_ **

Artemis is a magically-bred Black Mamba. Magically-bred Black Mambas are basically regular Black Mambas that were fed magical herbs from the moment they hatched. Therefore, these vipers grow much larger than normal Mambas, up to three-meters in length, although their venoms remain just as deadly. Tom rescued Artemis from one of Lucius' potion ingredient shops (they were harvesting her shedding skin) and now she serves as his pet and ropes used in kidnapping.

Special thanks to the readers/reviewers.

(Lego Coconut sings): "You guys are so awesome; You guys are so cool when you're part of the team—"

And, as always, a huge shout-out to my BETA,  **Krysania**  !


	19. The Undertaker's Kiss

BETA: the wonderful  **Krysania**

* * *

 _The Undertaker's Kiss_ was a little tavern hidden in the busy streets of central London. It was sandwiched between an Italian restaurant and an office supply store. From appearances, it looked completely unremarkable, with black-and-red interior and decidedly eighties atmosphere.  _Unremarkable and cheap._

Of course, as with many things in life, appearance could be deceiving.  _This_  was certainly true of  _The Undertaker's Kiss._

To the Muggles, it was a common, if not somewhat shabby, little pub; to her intended victims, it was a brothel/crack-house disguised as a common little pub; to the Wizarding world, though, it was the home for a coven of Vampires.

And, to be fair, they were all  _right_.

Think about it, the idea was pretty ingenious.  _Why go out hunting when you can attract a steady supply of willing victims, to your very door, just with the promise of sex and recreation?_  When unsuspecting Muggles come to  _The Undertaker's Kiss,_  looking to buy drugs or pleasure, the vampires simply offer them some potions and wait until their foolish victims become drugged beyond comprehension.

Then, they simply take whatever they want.

The vampires were always unique in the sense that they were  _free_. They were unbound by the Ministry's laws, by governments and, most importantly, by life itself. They moved freely between the Muggle and Wizarding world, watched as governments rose and fell, unbothered by the changes around them. The vampires held a different sort of power than wizards. Although they couldn't use magic— a privilege of the living— they were no less lethal, which made it very hard for the Ministry to domesticate them... A fact that annoyed Voldemort to no end.

The vampires were the children of the night, eternal and damned.

_But they were free._

Harry walked past rooms that leaked sounds of grunting and moaning. Where some poor, drugged chap was, in no doubt, writhing with pleasure, under the illusion that he is engaging in a session of passionate love-making; whereas, in reality, a vampire (or two) was suckling him dry.

However, luckily for him, vampires have their rules too. These  _civilized_  Vampires didn't tend to kill that often, lest to draw attention to themselves. But if some  _sessions_  went a tad too far and some muggles ended up dead...well, no one's got too bothered by it either.

 _Muggles_ , there were billions of them, after all.

Harry found the office of his Ward Teacher, who incidentally was the head of this coven. He cracked open the lock with a simple ward-breaking spell and slipped inside. Harry knew he had just set off the alarm in the room, so he sat down and waited.  _The Teacher will know to come soon._

In front of Harry, there was a fat man lying unconscious on the carpet. Harry peered at the man curiously. He looked... vaguely alive.

_Dinner, perhaps?_

The vampire entered without a sound. His graceful movements glided like a dancer with impossible speed, as he suddenly appeared in front of Harry. He was a tall, well-built fellow, who looked about late forties, with pale skin and long dark hair pulled in a ponytail. He was dressed in an impeccably fitted Muggle suit, dark-blue with silver cufflinks, where, most peculiarly, one of the sleeves draped loosely over his shoulder... as the man only has one arm.

The vampire lifted the unconscious fat man off the floor, easily, hoisting a grown man with one hand like he was no heavier than a chicken.

" _Harry_ ," he exclaimed, shaking the poor sap violently. " _My boy._ How are you?"

Harry let out a long suffering sigh.

"—I'm over here, teacher," Harry waved from the couch. "Forget your glasses again?"

" _Aye_ , yes," answered the vampire cheerfully, dropping the unconscious man with a loud thud. "And here I thought you've gotten fat."

The vampire smiled with his customary warmness, white fans flashing at Harry.

Mr. Trafalgar held many strange dispositions for a creature of the night. Often, he appeared pleasant, thoughtful and controlled... less  _tortured_  than many of his counterparts. Harry thought he must've been great fun when he was alive.

Once, Mr. Trafalgar was a Wizard himself, a scholarly man, a proper Ward Master— but now he was none of those things. Harry thought he must've been a well-respected man, once, with skills to rival any Ward Master in the world. And Harry couldn't understand why the man chose to give up his magic to become a vampire — perhaps for immortality or eternal youth or some common desire like that...

Harry envied the vampire for their freedom, but he wasn't tempted to become one. He loved his magic too much to give it up... and he still needed its power to accomplish his murderous goals. Besides, judging by the rampant nature of many vampires, immortality wasn't all it cracked up to be.

_Everything had a price, even death._

"Look at you," exclaimed Mr. Trafalgar, pulling Harry into a hug with his one good arm. His touch was cold, but his voice was warm and jolly. "You've gotten so big. Tall. And  _pretty_."

"Handsome," Harry corrected, returning with a huge grin of his own. "And you look wonderful yourself, teacher, exactly the same as always in fact."

The vampire patted his shoulder and sat down next to him.

"So tell me— what news brings you here?"

So Harry told him. He told his teacher about his encounter with Voldemort and his need for an explanation about where he learned Warding. Mr. Trafalgar listened patiently as Harry explained—  _no offense_ — but the Ministry would not approve of him associating with vampires. And, right now, Harry very much desires to not be scrutinized.

"Too bad about your medallion," nodded the vampire. "I'm quite interested in its construction."

"I'll make another one," Harry shrugged. "As soon as I get my hands on some Valyrian gold. Those are expensive."

"Actually, I might have some lying around... somewhere. I'll send them to you. Gold seem much less alluring now...that I no longer desired to impress women. As for your explanation, I have an old friend down in Suffolk, a bit of a hermit, but respectable. You can claim access to his library... I'll write to him to let him know— that is — if he's still living."

Harry nodded, that seemed tame enough for the Ministry.

Then, Harry hesitated. Something has been nagging in the back of his mind, ever since the day he went to visit Pettigrew.

_Pettigrew's terrified voice._

_"NO! PLEASE! — I didn't betray you, James. I never told them about Harry, about how you faked Harry's birthday! I swear on my magic, I didn't tell them... I didn't..."_

But Harry was certain his birthday was  _August 1st_ ,  _1980_ , because healers and lawyers checked him, many times, on the day he inherited the Potter estate. There was no way to fake that... unless _—_

"Teacher, is there ways to magically mask someone's  _real_  birthday?"

"Why, yes, I can think of six methods on top of my head."

"Is there one that's undeletable by spell-work and lasts for a lifetime?"

The teacher scratched his chin thoughtfully. "That's more difficult... I believe there is one... from an old, obscure Light Magic book. Some sort of a concealment potion, I believe _—_ "

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

"May I have a look at this book?"

The vampire raised an elegant eyebrow, but agreed. "Very well, I'll go get it. Wait here, my boy."

"Thank you, sir."

Harry was always grateful for Mr. Trafalgar's generosity toward him. The man was brilliant; Harry was determined to work hard to make his teacher proud of him. In retrospect, Harry was glad that Tom set-up their first encounter  _—_ even if that encounter nearly got Harry killed.

See, Harry met the vampire through a completely  _hilarious_  incident that was partially the result of Tom's scheming and partially the result of some  _friendly_  canines.

* * *

/Past/

Little Harry trudged through the thick undergrowth of the darkening forest, his wand in front of him, lighting the empty path with a faint "Lumos". The trees were endless, birches and elms, yews and pines; tall and ancient, they stretched as far as the eye can see. In the sky, the sun was setting, lighting the clouds aflame with its orange glow. Owls hooted. Something growled in the distance.

It was getting late. Harry was lost.

Harry ticked in annoyance. It was times— like this —that he wished he knew Apparition. Technically, being fourteen, he was still too young to get a license.  _But...hey...breaking laws never stopped him before._

The summer wind swept through his hair, and it danced in the fresh air. Harry's curls weren't as tight and uncontrollable as it was when he's younger, now it settled into nice waves around his shoulder, shiny and soft, black as a raven's wing.

Harry and Tom were spending their summer in Ireland, at a castle property owned by the Malfoys. Narcissa had gotten sick and was hospitalized, so they basically spent the whole summer unsupervised, in a remote little Wizarding village, which suited their purposes just fine, as Tom begun training him in Dark Arts.

It was enlightening. Tom's vast knowledge of all Magical arts was extraordinary. All the power the spirit commanded, expressed through an infinite darkness, beautiful and terrible at once, was unlike anything Harry had ever seen. It mesmerized him; it awed him; it changed him.

To able to learn from someone like Tom was amazing.  _Tom_  was amazing.

But, off course, Tom was also a total arse.

Tom had brought Harry to the woods, threw him into a pile of leaves, and then Apparated away without an explanation; thus, leaving Harry stranded in the middle of no-where, irritated and confused, trekking through some  _bloody_  forest on empty stomach.

_Fucking arsehole._

Suddenly, the woods became very silent. Harry heard a rush of footsteps. He barely managed to dodge a fist that came from the darkness. He swirled around, jumped backward and sent a " _Stupefy_ " in the direction of his attacker.

The red-light bounced off an extremely large man. The muscular stranger leered at him from behind mattered grey hair and whiskers. Powerful muscles showed beneath a tattered fur vest; strange tattoos covered him from head-to-toe. The man had a broad face and beast-like eyes, with pointed teeth and long yellowish nails.

He did not look friendly.

 _Snatchers._  Harry cursed under his breath.  _Shit._

"It's a night of full moon," growled the man. " _Boy_ , how stupid are you to enter MY WOODS?—"

Harry took a step back. He lifted his wand.

"Don't even think about it," warned the man, lifting a fist that's as large as Harry's head. "Or it's really going to  _hurt_ —"

The man lunged for him. His large body bounced off Harry's shield charm, but Harry couldn't stun him before another set of powerful arms grabbed him from behind and threw him to the ground.

A punch connected with Harry's jaw; there was a crunching sound, he buckled in agony as a hand pressed his face into the ground. Dirt pressed into Harry's mouth. The hand squeezed hard. Harry was choking.

Then, they took his wand.

" _Let's try this again_ ," said the beastly man. He yanked Harry up by the hair and held his face close. "Who  _the fuck_  are you?"

"Ha...Harry," Harry struggled out, spitting out dirt. "Harry Malfoy. I'm a proper citizen.  _Half-blood._  I have identifications."

The man rummaged through his pockets. "I see no papers."

"I... I forgot them," muttered Harry. "Listen, if you can take me back to Daergonsburry... I'll call my family and I promise they will reward you handsomely for my return."

"Malfoy? —" frowned the man, regarding Harry with calculating eyes; his breath stunk of dead things. "The Coinmaster's family— that  _Malfoys_?"

"Yeah. Lucius is...my father."

The beastly man raised an eyebrow. He snapped his fingers. Two other men emerged from the shadows. They dragged Harry a short while to a clearing, where there were a faint camp-fire burning and another body lying on the ground. From the man's silhouette, he looked like a Muggle, wearing a Muggle t-shirts and jeans. He only had one arm.

Before Harry could get a good look at the man, the snatchers tied them together with some rough ropes, back-to-back, with the rope cutting into Harry's stomach. Harry's arms bound tightly against the man's much thicker one. Then, the three kidnappers looped the other end of the rope on a tree branch and hauled them up. The ropes tagged painfully around Harry's midsection as he swung in the air, his feet dangling thirty feet off the ground, hanging above like the way camping bags were hung in the trees to avoid bears.

Through out it all, the one-armed man said nothing. He didn't even squirm. Perhaps he was unconscious.

"Look," chuckled the man, pointing at Harry. "Our little truant tended out to be a fat, golden trout... or so he claims. Guess we'll find out soon."

"But... Fenrir," murmured one of the men. "What if he's telling the truth?... It's a  _full-moon_  night... and... if we kill a Malfoy—"

Fenrir waved a hand. "If he dies, we'll bury the body in the woods. No one will ever know."

"I ain't letting him go. That's fo' sure," Fenrir roared. "The little truant is worth a lot if he's telling the truth. Of course — that is —  _only if_  he manages to survive the night."

* * *

/Past/

It didn't take long for Harry to figure out why he's hanging in a tree. Well... now that he knew— all he could do is praying for the ropes to hold steady.

The bright, pale full-moon shone down on the three creatures below their feet. They looked like some sort of monstrous, deformed dog-human hybrids. Hairy, with thick, bulging muscles, and claws the size of daggers, they stood on their hind-legs and snapped at the two delicious humans hanging in the tree. Their mouth opened below Harry's feet, just three red, gaping holes of teeth and saliva... waiting hungrily as dinner swung in the air.

"Stop squirming," said a lazy voice from behind Harry. "You're making me dizzy."

Harry cranked his neck, but couldn't see anything of the man, who shared his terrible situation.

"You are awake?!"

"Correction, I was awake the whole time. My eyes were just closed... and I want to find out if  _they_  belong to any pack nearby. Hmm... Seems not. Are you a wizard, boy?"

" _Yes_ —" Harry tried his hardest to sound brave, as calm as the strange man, but his childish voice cracked pathetically.

Beneath them, the creatures howled, a terrible, animalistic screech that send shivers down Harry's spine.

"Curious, you must've been the one the other boy mentioned—" murmured the stranger.

Before Harry could ask any question, he felt his body flying through the air. Terrified, it took him a while to realize he was not falling. The strange man held Harry in one arm and leaped to a higher branch; the ropes, somehow cut into pieces, fell away. The man placed the boy on the branch, and stood still, elegantly, on the swaying tree like it was no different than flat ground. For a moment, they peered at each other curiously.

The man grinned, long fangs unsheathed from his red-lips, his skin flawless and ghastly pale. He only had one arm— the left one — with the other sleeve hanging empty from his broad shoulder. On his nose sat a pair of round glasses that looked exactly the same as Harry's.

Harry shuddered; suddenly he wasn't sure if he was safer here or with the werewolves.

The man spoke, with a low, authoritative voice.

"Watch this, wizard child. The moon doesn't only bless those wretched dogs... Hmm... Since they aren't from a pack known to my friends, well, I don't have to hold back."

The man jumped off. Dark clouds blotted out the moonlight, and the campfire had long since extinguished, leaving Harry in complete darkness, grasping onto rough branches for dear life. He couldn't see a thing below him, but he could hear a fierce battle happening. There were sounds of smashing, trees breaking, barking and yapping and fiendish snarls, then desperate wails of wounded animals. After a long while, when the blood-cuddling noises faded into silence, the man reappeared and took Harry down to the ground.

He handed Harry's wand back to him. Harry took it, careful not to get any blood on his hands. The werewolves were gone, running off in defeat, presumably.

The man's eyes glinted golden in the darkness. Blood soaked his t-shirts. He licked some blood off his powerful hand, long razor-sharp claws retracted into his flesh.

"Yuck," said the stranger. " _Dog food_."

Harry stared.

"Werewolf bloods are highly contagious," warned Harry weakly.

"Highly contagious to humans, maybe—" The man smiled, in the way elders often smile at children, but, with blood smeared across his handsome face, the stranger's smile became more terrifying than reassuring. "Tell me, child, how old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"Then, you are younger than my son... And— pardon the eye-sight of an old man— but... are you a boy or a girl?"

"..."

 _Damn it,_ Harry lamented, _he really needed a hair-cut._

"A boy," answered Harry reluctantly. He clutched his wand; its warm magic reassured him. It seemed the man isn't going to eat him. "I... I didn't know vampires can have children."

"Ah, sharp one, aren't you?" The vampire nodded. "We are not the same as human parents. They birth the gift of life; we bring the gift of death. But, nevertheless, the responsibilities are the same— if you  _make_  a changeling, they become your children,  _your responsibility_ ,"

"—Tell me, child, why are you wondering the woods at night."

"My brother brought me here," Harry grumbled. "I don't know why...Maybe he wants to kill me."

The vampire inspected his face, as if assessing the truthfulness of his words.

"Your brother— he wouldn't happen to be a boy about your age, blonde with a pointy nose, who saunters around like he owns the world?"

"... That's him alright."

The vampire's smile widened; under the moonlight, his perfectly normal features somehow seemed stone-like.  _Inhuman_.

"Funny enough, he lured me here too. He stole something of mine... Say, child, do you know where he is?"

Harry looked into the vampire's golden orbs, remembering Tom's words about finding Harry a new instructor. Then, it all clicked in his head.  _Tom set all this up!_  He wanted Harry to meet the vampire for some reason, and he was willing to risk Harry's life for it.

 _Urgggh_! Internally, Harry was seething with anger.  _He had enough of Tom's games!_

"Yeah, I know where he is—" Harry nodded solemnly. "Tell you what— Mr. Vampire — I'll take you there and I'll even help you murder him."

* * *

Harry must've drifted asleep on the couch. As soon as he heard the door swing open, though, he startled awake. There was a swoosh of movement, suddenly, something heavy leaped on top of him, pressuring him down with cold arms. Soft lips pressed against his neck, fangs barely touched his skin, a cold and dead breath sent warning signs rippling through his body.

"DON'T. MOVE. —" warned Harry, bright green eyes flew open.

He held a dagger to the chest of the vampire on top of him; the sharp tips cut into his attacker's t-shirt. Harry's eyes met familiar, bluish-violet eyes, which were on the pale face of a fifteen-years-old boy. The boy had a tall, narrow nose and red-lips that seemed too large for his face. His wavy, blonde hair barely reached his shoulder, and framed with his face with an intense, golden colour that looked very different from the Malfoys' platinum blonde. An odd little smile danced on his lips, not quite threatening, but not quite friendly either.

The boy, no, vampire sneered, his blade-like fangs inches away from Harry's throat. For a moment, a predatory glint passed in his eyes and Harry tensed, for he knew that this particular vampire can be very unpredictable. Then, the boy threw back his head and laughed.

"Just messing with you, dear friend. You've gotten slower."

"Quick enough to kill you," mumbled Harry, pushing the boy off him with annoyance. "Get off me, Silver. You're drooling on me."

Silver Trafalgar was Mr. Trafalgar's "son". None of the other vampires liked him, because he was so young when he was made a changeling, but, out of respect for Mr. Trafalgar, no one ever protested. Fifteen was on the edge of acceptability by Vampyre laws, but, in truth, everyone knew, it was too immature for the burden of immorality. Personally, Harry thought Silver was not helping his own case by acting crazy at times. The boy was prone to flights of fancy or fits of rage, and, with his vampire powers, such unpredictability can be very dangerous.

Harry and Silver used to get along very well. When they first met, Harry was fourteen and Silver was a new changeling, they played together a lot— chess and duelling and reading, Silver was very impressed by Harry's magic. But, as Harry grew older and Silver remained the same, the young vampire began to resent Harry, resenting him for his future and for his ability to wield magic. Sometimes, Harry caught the vampire staring at him with a vicious sort of jealousness, pale violet eyes fixed on his face, cold and hungry. And, of course, the stares angered Harry. They ended up arguing a lot... sometimes, even out right fighting that injured both of them.

Now, Harry tended to avoid Silver, too bad the vampire won't pay him the same courtesy.

 _Call it friendly sibling rivalry, or whatever_  — except both of them held enough power to destroy many houses. And that was why Mr. Trafalgar forbade them to ever duel inside his coven, and they both respected the old vampire enough to obey his orders.

"Now, play nice, children," said Mr. Trafalgar as he entered, carrying a large book in one arm.

Silver stood up, and gave Harry a mocking bowl.

"I apologized," said the young vampire. "I forget living  _children_  still required their naps."

"None taken," replied Harry, flashing a forced smile at Silver. He pulled out his wand and repaired the boy's t-shirt. "And... I apologized for damaging your shirt. I thought I was being attacked by a _savage_."

Behind the elder vampire's back, they exchanged glares of dagger.

The man laid the book on the table. In the dim-lights, Harry recognized the book. It was large and heavy, with leather-bound covers, which were embedded with round, river pebbles; it didn't have a title or authors, but its immeasurable value was plain for all to see. Harry gasped. His mother had a book, which looked exactly like this one.

Harry turned to Mr. Trafalgar, "Teacher, may I borrow your book for a bit?"

The vampire's dark eyes inspected him, his expression grim. For a moment, Harry thought the man was going to refuse, but then, the man laughed. His warm voice filled the room.

"Of course... In fact, you can have it, my boy. I have no use for spell books anymore. But, promise me, you'll take it easy, child... Unlike us, you have limited years to live. Enjoy it while you can."

Harry thanked him profusely and then picked up the book.

On its first page, the book's preface read.

 _"We hold the powers of the Light. Her spells and her secrets, which ought to be locked from mortal eyes. Her power is no less treacherous than that of her sister's_ _— the Dark, the feared one — and yet, she is not feared as she ought to be. Her powers shall not be taken in vain. We warn you._ _We know you shall not listen, as men never heed wise words. Still, to be true, to be warned_ _—_ _magic require sacrifices_ _— what_ _the Dark takes from the enemies, the Light takes from the self. Which is the crueller Mistress? We do not know. We do not speak. We keep._

_Be warned."_

Harry ran his finger through its supple covers. The leather's black-colour faded with age but somehow it remained smooth, shiny with a dangerous allure. He flipped through it, and opened to the chapter on  _Concealment Potions._  He combed through the chapter carefully, then, finally found what he was looking for _—_

There was a spell to temporarily reverse the effect of  _Age Concealment Potion_ , which would allow Harry to determine if Pettigrew was telling the truth.

Harry cleared the wooden table. (Although that fat man still lay nearby, unmoving. Now Harry was sure he was dead). With his wand, he drew a Ward circle on the table. It glinted golden, like gold lines curved into the dark wood. The two vampires watched him work in silence. Mr. Trafalgar, no doubt, thought Harry worked rather slowly and Silver was probably confused, as he has zero magical knowledge.

Harry pointed his wand to his temple and murmured,

" _Dias Aperioss._ "

Harry felt a coldness trickling down his wand like a stream of water. He shuddered, the coldness spread rapidly to his toes. He lifted one finger above the golden Ward circle, then he snipped his skin with a dagger. All three of them watched as Harry's blood slowly dripped on to the circle, sizzling as red touched gold, as life mixed with magic.

His blood began to rearrange itself  _—_ slowly but surely  _—_ into words.

The scarlet, spinney writing said  _"July 31, 1980."_

* * *

**Author's ramblings:**

SORRY! Exam season again. Will school never end?

And, as always, a huge shout-out to my BETA,  **Krysania**  !

* * *

 **Blooper # 5** :

In the forest of the night, when Harry is being interviewed by his teacher, stalker-Tom is watching him from the shadows. Everything is going according to plan.

Stalker-Tom is wearing his outdoor stealth uniform, camouflage pants and a headdress made of leaves, with the invisibility cloak draping over his shoulder. And yes... his uniform looks terrible, which is why he's also wearing the invisibility cloak.

Stalker-Tom's inner thoughts:

_Filthy dogs, get your paws of what is mine... Oh, wait, I sent you there._

_Excellent. The vampire is keeping his end of the bargain. He's keeping Harry safe._

_Harry's hair is getting too long. Although he does look adorable, it also makes him look like a girl... Besides, no one need to find out he's cute other than me._

_My legs are getting numb. Stalking is hard work._

_Harry's probably mad he missed dinner. I should've packed him a snack. He's still growing, after all._

_Okay, the meeting's going well. Good, good. Of course, he's impressive for his age, old-man blood-sucker, I raised him after all._

_Harry looks pretty mad... Maybe this isn't such a good idea... Nah, I'm brilliant._

_His eyes look pretty when he's angry. Green and burning and shit..._

_Okay, they are leaving. I should return before them._

But before Tom moves, the three wounded werewolves run across his path. They're whimpering pathetically like beaten dogs. Tom smiles. He raises his wand. Tom decides on teaching them a lesson— about touching what belongs to him.

(... _But you are the one that set-up everything... You're totally unreasonable, Tom._ )

And that was how poor Fenrir and his two associates end up in the Intensive Care Unit of St. Mungo's Hospital, bed-ridden for two whole months. They never told anyone about what happened in the forest that night, about how they got beaten up by an one-armed vampire and a ghost wearing a bunch of leaves.


End file.
